Fringe
by Typhoon73
Summary: This is a story that is only in Jane's POV. Jane Rizzoli had left the BPD after a great loss and works as a P.I. One day the burlesque dancer shows up in her office and hire her with a unusual case. Even though you don't like supernatural, I hope you give it a try. I try to keep it as close as possible and I hope you like it.
1. Chapter 1

My name is Jane Rizzoli. I'm a Detective.  
But I don't investigate cheating spouses or crooked business partners.  
I investigate things that go bump in the night.  
How do you got stared in paranormal investigations is a long story.  
Something took my wife from me.  
Rose was my whole world.  
Now she's gone. I've been running down leads ever since.  
It's a though racket, looking into the dark and creeping things.  
Most people won't even admit they believe in ghosts and goblins, much less consult a Detective about it.  
And the cops?  
They aren't interested in solving the strange side.  
I know, because I used to be one of them.  
Now I work for yourself, which means most months the bills go unpaid.  
This month being no exception.  
I'm at the office, feet up on the desk, paperback novel in hand when a leggy blonde in a pinstripe mini-skirt and a black fedora with lipstick the color of temptation saunters in.  
My eyes make a slow trip up those long legs to a narrow waist and then linger on her ... lips before settling onto a pair of eyes that promise sin.  
She gives me the same treatment.  
I can't tell is she if likes what she sees or if she's seizing me up, questioning whether I am up to the job.  
Ignoring a pair if tatty office chairs, she perches herself on the edge of the corner of your desk instead and crosses one leg over the other, revealing a lot of thigh.  
It's kind of late night rerun I never get tired of watching.  
She takes a cigarette from her purse and I flick open my Zippo.  
She takes a long drag, blows a steam of blue smoke up toward the cracked ceiling and says, "So you're a private dick?"  
"Public dick as well." I say. "What can I do for you?"  
"Someone's trying to kill me." she says.  
"Why would anyone want to kill you?"  
"That's what I want you to find out."  
I chuckle. "Fair enough. But we haven't been introduced yet."  
"Maura Isles."  
I clear my throat. It's suddenly hot in here.  
I resist the urge to put a finger in the collar of my white blouse and tug. "And why do you think someone is trying to kill you?"  
She doesn't answer right away.  
She shrudders almost imperceptibly, I pretend not to notice. I wait her out.  
Finally she says, "Mrs. Rizzoli. In fact I've just become the headline act."  
My curious at the way her face pinches as she admits this, but I merely say, "Call me Jane", and lean back in my chair, knowing she's about to explain herself.  
She nodes and takes a breath. "Okay, Jane. Like I said, I'm now the top dancer - the reason they sell tickets. That's why someone is trying to kill me. Only not in a normal sense. You see, the other headliners have all died."  
"How's that?"  
Maura shrugs. "Different ways. Joanie got run over by bus, and Deedee fell out of a sixth floor window."  
"Sounds like a pair of unfortunate accidents." I tell her  
"That's just what the boys,down at the police station said." she gets up and paces the floor. "But you don't know all the facts. Joanie was paranoid about crossing traffic. It was practically a phobia with her. She had a brother, see. He got run over and killed when Joanie was only ten. It stuck with her."  
"That sort of things always does."  
"There's no way Joanie walked out into traffic without looking first."  
"Either of them take drugs? Or drink?"  
She gives me an exasperated look. "Just because we are dancers doesn't mean we are booze hounds as well, Mrs. Rizzoli."  
"You didn't answer my question."  
"Joanie liked to hit the bottle, but she wasn't drinking that night. I know that for a fact. I was with her fifteen minutes before she died. She hadn't touched a drop. And Deedee, she was straight-laced. A good kid. She fell out of a hotel window that doesn't open. Just fell right out. Even the police couldn't explain it."  
I lean back and make a steeple of my fingers. "That is suspicious. The cops look into it?"  
She snorts, "In a city like Boston? Couple of dancers turn up dead, no one cares. The police put it down to a accident."  
"They aren't very open-minded about this sort of thing." I agree. "What do their deaths have to do with you? Why do you believe you are next?"  
"Both had my part before they died. Someone or something killed them, Jane. I just know it. Won't you help me?"  
I weight my options.  
This is the first paying gig I've seen in a while and I could really use the money.  
"Keep your shirt on, sweetheart. I can help you. But it ain't cheap."  
"I have money." Maura says. She glance down at the fashionably small handbag she's clinching. "How much do you charge?"  
"Fifty Dollars a day, plus one hundred up front."  
Her lips press together in a small frown.  
It's a hefty fee, but she nods all the same.  
If there really is more to these deaths than accident, I won't know until I investigate. But Maura believes there is and that's usually enough to separate a client from the greenbacks.  
Hey, I've got bills to pay.  
She goes into her purse and counts out one hundred.  
With the money part out if the way, I turn to the real business. I say, "So did Joanie and Deedee have any enemies? Jealous ex-boyfriends? Money problems?"  
Maura only shakes her head.  
"What about you? Any enemies?"  
"No, but there is this one guy ..."  
"Go on."  
"He is a regular at the club. Comes in every Friday night. Kind of a quiet guy. He asked Joanie out a couple of times."  
"She go out with him?"  
"Of course not." Maura almost laughs "He's real creep."  
"How's that?"  
"He never looks you in the eye, but he's always looking. Kinda like he's undressing you with his eyes."  
"It's a burlesque show." you say. "Is there much to undress?"  
Maura narrows her eyes at you.  
I shrug, "Tell me more."  
"He's pale with watery eyes and a ring on his pinky, with one of those five pointed stars."  
"A pentagram?"  
"Yes, that's it."  
Now we are getting somewhere.  
He could be an occultist of some kind, worshiping some forgotten evil god.  
The girls might be blood sacrifices, though most of those old time evils prefer virgin blood.  
I've spent long enough in this business to learn things like this.  
This guy might be worth checking into. You ask, "Know where he lives?"  
"No. But today is Friday. He'll be at the club at 8 o'clock sharp."  
"Good. That will give me a chance to check out the rest of the clientele."  
"Thanks for taking my case, Jane. I'll see you tonight?"  
"Count on it, sweetheart."  
I appreciate the view as she walks out and then stack my feet back onto the desk.  
There is a better than average chance it's all coincidence, but I don't like the idea of this funny costumer with a pentagram on his pinky.  
Either way, I'll find out more come 8 o'clock.  
I open the paperback novel I'd been reading before Maura came in and try to find where I left off.  
Before I can do that, the coo-coo clock on the wall chimes.  
A little door at the top opens and the wooden bird pops out to tweet.  
It's no ordinary coo-coo clock.  
In fact, I were told it was extraordinary when you acquired it from that gypsy with the mesmerizing stare and equally mesmerizing curves.  
I thought I'd been swindled, but over time I've come to realize that this clock has a sort of premonitory power.  
In short, it's basically a warning system.  
The chime means some unfriendly visitor is on the way.  
I hurry to the window for a look down at the street and spot my landlady's car parked at the curb.  
I am two weeks behind on the rent.  
I can't go out the front.  
You'd have to pass her on the stairs.  
I can stay here - but that would mean surrending some of the cash I just received from Maura Isles.  
And I can lock the door and pretend I'm gone.  
Another option is to go out the window and down the fire escape.  
Finally, I can just face your landlady and try to negotiate half.  
Wasting no time, I take my coat from the rack near the door and then retrieve your Glock from the desk before unlatching the window.  
A cool breeze floods the office and riffles case notes on the desk.  
I've got one leg over the ledge when Mrs. Stonthammer rasps on the frosted glass window pane set in the office door.  
"Mrs. Rizzoli?" her shrill voice is muffled by the door. "You are two weeks late with the rent. Again."  
I duck out onto the fire escape, close the window behind me and climb down the rusting ladder to the ladder to the alley.  
I drop the last few feet to the asphalt and scare away a cat that had been nosing through the garbage.  
The tabby goes streaking down the alley.  
I follow it.  
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx  
A five Dollar cab ride puts me out front of the club.  
The last rays of the setting sun turn to the marquee liquid gold.  
A cool breeze off the harbor lifts your hair.  
I hear a buoy clanging and the soft rumble of the trawler returning from a long day shrimping.  
A horn echoes across the cove.  
The marquee reads **See the Taboo Crew live! Every Friday and Saturday night**.

I push through the double doors into a small lobby, suffused with red light and occupied by a large surly-looking bouncer.  
He's got a bald head and shoulders in two different time zones.  
"Five Dollars." he informs me in a low voice that perfectly matches his appearance.  
Maura forgot to mention the cover charge.  
I need to get inside if I want to check out the costumer.  
I stroll around in the back of the club, along a litter-strewn alley, and find a metal door that only opens from the inside and a small window set high on the wall.  
A pair of trashcans sit under the window.  
I knock, then stuff my hands in my coat pockets and try to look bored.  
The door is opened by a young fella with a large nose wearing a cook's apron.  
He's holding a spatula and looks at you with raised eyebrows.  
"Fire marshal." I tell him. "Running a little late, son. Can you let me in so I can get this inspection over with?"  
"Didn't know we had an inspection today.", he tells you.  
"Wouldn't be much of a surprise inspection then, would it?"  
The cook presses his lips together.  
I stand there, trying to look you belong.  
Finally he nods. "Alright, but make it quick. The show starts in a few minutes."  
He stands back and I slip past him into the kitchen.  
I stroll around the dirty space, make a show of inspecting the stove and then take a cursory glance at the fire extinguisher.  
Far as I can tell, the whole place might be a fiery death trap.  
I turn to the cook. "Where's the toilet?"  
"What do you have to inspect in there?"  
"I have to pee, kid."  
He laughs, "Oh, sure. Through that door in your right."  
Although this whole acting bit was a bit much to save myself measly five bucks, it was rather fun.  
I smile to myself as I walk down the hall.  
I follow his directions, stopping briefly in the jalm, and then find my way to the main room.  
I walk into a wall of smoke and sound.  
A lot of guys and even a few girls populate the tables.  
Mist of the lighting is centered on the stage.  
Small candles on each table illuminate the expectant smiles on the faces of the guests.  
The bar man is busy but you manage to get his attention.  
"What'll you have?"  
I shall out a two clams scotch on the rocks, thank him and then turn my attention back to the crowd, looking for anyone that stands out.  
I don't have to wait before a lanky man in a powder blue tux struts on the stage, a microphone in his hand.  
He's got receding hair and beady eyes set too close to his nose.  
"Hello, hello, hello! Welcome to the show!"  
The crowd shows their enthusiasm.  
"Are you ready to be captivated?"  
More cheers.  
"Mesmerized?"  
This gets a louder cheer.  
"Titillated?"  
Loudest applause yet.  
"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer says, "please put your hands together for the lovely, the sensual, the sexy Lora Lust!"  
The velvet curtain draws apart and a single spot light illuminates the talk blonde with her back to the audience.  
She's in a backless black cocktail dress.  
A dark dreary jazz tune starts up.  
She exposes one long white leg through a slit in her dress and looks over her shoulder at the crowd.  
She belts out a better than average version of **My Man Ain't No Good.**

She got a husky voice, like smoke and silk, that does things to your imagination.  
It takes years of hard drinking to get a voice like that.  
Miss Lust knows how to work the crowd.  
She comes off stage, threading her way through the tables, while she sings.  
The backless dress with the slits up either side shows just enough leg to make the men shift in their seats.  
Her eyes do the rest.  
She's not as young, like Maura Isles.  
Must be in her late thirties, but she sure can turn on the charm.  
The song ends.  
The spot light winks out and the curtain falls closed.  
The audience does their part with claps and whistles.  
The announcer comes back, encourages another round of applause for Miss Lora Lust and then introduces the next act.  
"Let's hear it for our very own Russian trapeze girl, Ivana Vivacious!"  
When the curtain opens again, a wisp of a girl in stockings and garters is swinging back and forth on a trapeze.  
Lora was seductive, even classy.  
Ivana's pure lust.  
She twists and contorts on her trapeze as first one socking and then the other peels off.  
Her sequined bra follows.  
By the time the curtain comes down, Ivana is wearing panties and pasties.  
The crowd is eating it up.  
"Like what you see?", a husky voice purrs in my ear.  
While I were distracted by Ivana, Lora Lust planted herself on the bar stool next to me.  
She's got a drink in hand, her back to the bar.  
One carefully sculpted eyebrow arches.  
"The first act was better.", I tell her.  
"Don't patronize me."  
"No, really. You have a great voice. When do you go on again?"  
She smiles, "That's it for me. I'm a one-trick pony. Jeffrey thinks I'm getting too old for burlesque."  
"Jeffrey's the manager?"  
"That's right." she says. "And who are you?"  
I give her a once over and say, " I'm looking for someone just like you."  
"Honey, I hope that's not the vest line you've got." she says with a smile.  
"I got a whole book of them back at my place." you tell her. "We could find one you like better."  
She laughs, "Afraid I can't help you there, Casanova. But you might have better luck with one of the other girls." she looks me over and adds. "Maybe."  
"What if I told you I wasn't here for the show?"  
"You wouldn't be telling me anything I didn't already know." she says. " You a cop?"  
"The name is Jane Rizzoli. I'm a private investigator. I'm looking into the deaths of Joanie and Deedee. Know anything?"  
She takes a sip from her drink, "They were good girls. Broke my heart when I found out. Guess you could say I'm kind of the mother hen around here. I watch out for these girls." she shrugs. "Guess I didn't do such a good job."  
"Got any theories?"  
Lora lets out a bitter little laugh, "Dozens, each as unlikely as the next. How do you explain someone falling out a window that doesn't open? It makes no sense. All I know is the girls are scared." after a moment she admits. "I'm scared too."  
"Well, if it was murder." I tell her. "I'll catch the one that did it."  
Lora looks up at you.  
Her red lips parted slightly.  
I can see cow's feet just beginning at the corner of her green eyes, but age hasn't caught up with her yet.  
She nods slowly and says, "You know, I almost want to believe you."  
"Any reason not to?"  
"You already lied to me once. And a girl like me has been lied to by a lot of people, Ms. Rizzoli."  
"Call me Jane."  
"Call me Lora." she says.  
While I and Lora chat, the effeminate Jeffrey takes the stage again and introduce Maura Isles.  
Only this time the curtain doesn't part.  
The spot light creates a bright round disk on the crimson folds.  
The first thrumming base note rings out and a slender leg pokes through the curtain.  
An arm, holding an oriental fan, follows.  
Now the curtain draws apart to reveal Maura.  
A pair of matching fan is her entire outfit.  
Somehow she manages to sing and dance without ever baring the goods.  
I watch the fan play with rapt attention, only coming back to reality when Lora Lust snaps her fingers under my nose. "Guess we know what you like." she says.  
I shrug, "She's got plenty of ..."  
Lora raises an eyebrow.  
"Talent." I finish.  
"She's alright." Lora says. "I was better."  
I grin.  
Lora's got spirit.  
Moreover, she's got a certain light in her eyes, especially when she looks at you.  
It's been a while since a good-looking dame gave me the come-hither.  
Might be worth my time and effort.  
But right now I've got a job to do.  
"Let me ask you a question." I peel my eyes off the floor show and say, "Maura told me about a fella, a customer, that makes the girls nervous. Was wearing a ring with a five pointed star on his pinky. Know him?"  
Lora thrusts her chin at a guy in the back row.  
He's in a dark coat with his shoulders pulled up and his head ducked forward like an overgrown vulture.  
He's got a hook nose and beady eyes to complete the comparison.  
He watches the stage, while you watch him, and he keeps toying the pentagram on his pinky finger.  
"That's him." Lora says. "He gives off a real creep vibe. You think he has something to do with all the strange stuff going on?"  
"Right now I'm not ruling anybody out." I tell her.  
Lora checks the clock on the wall behind the bar. "I've got to go backstage and make sure all mt ladies are ready. The next act is a real show stopper . Stick around and maybe we can chat after, yeah?"  
"Alright, honey."  
Lora uses a side door and you return your attention to the vulture in the back row.  
Maura's on the stage doing her thing.  
It's hard to keep my eyes on him and off the show, but I manage. And a good thing too.  
While I watch, he starts muttering to himself.  
The music is too loud to hear what he's saying, but his lips are moving and he starts rocking back and forth in his seat.  
Sweat beads on his forehead.  
The air around me starts to crackle and hiss.  
The hairs at the back of my neck stand to end.  
This is black magic.  
I've felt it before.  
It's like standing too close to an open electrical line.  
Gooseflesh breaks out on my arms and a shiver runs up my spine.  
The crowd can feel it.  
They shift in their seats, a few know what to make of this strange uneasy feeling that suddenly enveloped them.  
Most will pass it off as a sudden cold spell or too much drink.  
A few of the more sensitive ones will be extra-sure to lock the door when they get home.  
Remembering the last time I dealt with black magic will keep me awake tonight.  
If Mr. Vulture is casting a spell, tackling him should end it.  
On the other hand, although Mr. Vulture is acting suspicious, I've been wrong about people before.  
Besides, he's father away from me than Maura is.  
Maybe my priority should be to protect my client first and worry about the bad guy later.  
The steady crescendo of Maura's song and the feeling of wild electricity in the air weave together into something palpable.  
Whatever is going on, it's going to happen before Maua finish her act.  
I run for the stage, weaving between tables, ignoring angry shouts from jostled costumers and leap onto the raised platform.  
Maura sees me and her eyes goes wide.  
Overhead metal twists and shrieks.  
An amplifier sparks and shorts out.  
I barrel into Maura, wrapping my arms around her narrow waist.  
Her fans go sailing through the air.  
I land on top of her.  
The lighting scaffold tears away from the ceiling with a terrific screech and crashes down the stage in a shower of twisted metal and broken glass.  
Maura and I are safe, but just barely.  
The scaffolder came down where she stood only seconds ago.  
The music has stopped and,the customers, most of them, are running for the exit.  
I cough to clear the smoke and dust from my lungs and manage to choke out, "You alright?"  
"I'm alive." she looks up into your eyes and ads. "Because of you."  
"Thank me later." I scramble off Maura and climb over the wreck of the scaffold, looking for Mr. Vulture.  
He's on his feet, staring up at the stage, the fingers if his left hand still toying with the pentagram ring on his right pinky.  
Me and he locks eyes.  
For a moment, those dark bore into mine.  
In that moment, he turns and flees.  
I could run him down and beat the crap out of him or I could try to follow him from a distance.  
He went out the front door and I hurry after him.  
But you leave some distance.  
No need to let him know he's got a tail.  
The guy pulled down a lighting raffer with a few whispered words.  
He's throwing around serious magic.  
Way out of my league.  
A face confrontation probably wouldn't go well for me.  
He's headed north on the boulevard and you stroll along, trying to look like another scared costumer exiting the club after the accident.  
Two blocks up, he stops and hails a taxi.  
I sight the nearest cab and hop in. "Follow that guy."  
The cabbie turns in his seat.  
He's got a stub of cigar between his teeth and a five o'clock shadow. "You serious, hun?"  
"Yeah. Only don't get too close, okay?"  
The cabbie shrugs. "You're the boss."


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks for giving this a little chance. Of course you can tell me your thoughts._

_T73_

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He pulls out into the traffic, cutting off another motorist, and does a better than average job of tailing without arousing suspicious.  
"You a cop?" the cabbie inspects me in the review.  
"Private eye."  
"This fella we're following," he asks. "what did he do?"  
"Killed a pair of girls. Threw one in front of a bus and the other out of a window."  
The cabbie rolls the stub of a cigar to the other side without a comment.  
I settle back into the seat and let my heart rate return to normal.  
Had I known I would be dealing with a top shelf sorcerer, I'd have brought totems and wards I've gathered over the years.  
Magic is not my area of expertise, but I know few counter spells and can even do a few enchantments at a pinch, but I need the right material.  
Casters that can throw a spell with just their force of will are a rare breed.  
Rare.  
And dangerous.  
The lead taxi stops at a run-down two-story building of sagging brick and mortar with barred up windows.  
My driver slows down and stops a block away.  
Mr. Vulture climbs out and mounts the steps to the front door, throws a look over his shoulder and disappears inside.  
"Want I should wait?" the cabbie asks.  
"Please" I hand him a ten, get out and head up the block.  
The building is in a sad state.  
I can see why the bars were added.  
Most of the windows on the ground floor have been smashed out.  
The rooms beyond, far as I can see, are empty and dark.  
Mr. Vulture might live here, or might be squatting.  
One thing is sure - he's the only one living here.  
I do a lap around the building.  
There is no back door, just a fire escape too high to reach.  
I get back to the front in time to see a light come on in an upstairs window.  
At least I know where he is.  
This time I have no intention of letting him get the drop on me.  
I do another circuit of the building, pulling at all the bars until I find one with some play.  
It's covered in rust and groans when you tug.  
It will take some work.  
I spit into your palms, rub them together, take hold of the loose bar and brace my foot against the wall.  
The veins in my neck stand out and my face turns red.  
The bar first bends, then comes free with a loud twang.  
I fly backwards, rebound off the building next door and end up on my knees with little stars twinkling in my vision.  
A goose egg has sprung up on the back if my noggin, but I've got an opening and the bar will make a decent weapon.  
When the stars leave my brain, head back to their celestial orbit, I hoist myself through the window.  
Jagged shards of broken glass rip at my coat and my pant legs, taking some flesh as well.  
I drop through the other side into an empty room with high ceilings and a cold fireplace.  
The hardwood floor is covered in thick layer of dust.  
Cobwebs festoon the corners.  
I knock the the dust off my coat, climb to my feet and have a look around.  
A ghostly apparition hovers in a dark corner.  
I give a yell, leap back and raise the rusty bar in defense, as if that would do any good against a non-corporeal being.  
For a moment my heart pounds blood in my ears.  
Then I realize the ghost is actually a grandfather clock covered over with a whit sheet.  
A laugh work its way up from my chest.  
I shake my head, breathe a sigh of relief and from the corner of my eye see a shadow detach itself from the deeper gloom.  
Something crashes into the back of my skull and the lights go out.  
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx  
I swim up from unconsciousness.  
An army of angry bees built a nest inside my head while I were out.  
They are in there right now, buzzing and stinging and generally making life miserable.  
Being awake is a mistake.  
I want to go back into soft black of oblivion, but a tiny warning bell is jingle-jangling at the back of my mind.  
There is a light on.  
The glow penetrates the membranes of my closed eyelids.  
Water drips and chains clink.  
The air is cool.  
I remember infiltrating the Vulture's hide out and getting the back of my skull bashed in as a result.  
The pain at the back my head flares in response.  
It takes some effort, but I peel open one eye.  
I'm in a basement and I've been trussed like a Thanksgiving Day turkey.  
My hands are tied together and suspended overhead by a simple metal hook passed through the ropes.  
My feet dangle an inch off the stone floor.  
The light is coming from a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling.  
The decorator went for a look that says gothic castle meets fetish club.  
Chains, whips, knives and other unpleasant looking instruments adorn the walls.  
Dark red spots stain the floor.  
At least it's not my blood all over the floor.  
Not yet anyway.  
I'll have to think fast if I will going to get out of this one.  
Before I can formulate a plan, the door swings open.  
The Vulture comes in with a leather paddle in hand and asks, "Who are you?"  
Several options come to mind.  
I could lie and say I'm a cop and that I have the place surrounded.  
It's an old trick, but I was a cop once and can act the part.  
Or keep it simple and tell him that I am his worst nightmare.  
Maybe if I say it with enough conviction ...  
Finally, there's the option of trying to lighten things up a bit. "I'm the Ghost of Christmas past.", I tell him. "You've been naughty."  
He laughs, gives the leather paddle a few practice swings, making whooshing sounds through the air. "You're a funny chic. But if you don't tell me what I want to know, I'm going to hurt you. A lot."  
One look around the makeshift dungeon is enough to convince me he means business.  
He holds the paddle up for my inspection.  
It's a well-made piece of equipment.  
Thick leather and solid stitching.  
Probably handmade.  
Was it too much hope for a cheap, mass produced Halloween prop?  
He slaps it into his open palm wit a loud thwack.  
"Alright, I'm Detective."  
He nods. "And why were you following me?"  
I snort as if that should be perfectly obvious, but he only waits for my answer. "Because you tried to kill Maura with that spell.", I answer.  
He looks at me like I am the dangerous psychopath in the room. "You think I brought down that scaffolding? I have every intention of killing Miss Maura Isles," he says. "but not until I bring her back here to have my ... fun with her."  
A horrible weight settles in my stomach as I realize he's no sorcerer, just an everyday, run-of- the-mill serial killer.  
He didn't kill Deedee or Joanie.  
Which means whoever tried to drop that lighting fixture on Maura's head is still out there.  
He reads the,expression on my face and says, "Someone else is trying to kill her? Well, that's the least of your worries. I don't suppose there are too many people who will miss a lowly private eye. I can take my time with you." he takes a curved blade from the walk and tests the edge with his thumb nail. "I don't normally go for old chics."  
"Me neither.", I tell him.  
He places the edge of the blade against my left cheek. "Let's see how funny you are without your face."  
I screw my eyes shut and prepare myself for the searing pain of the blade dragging across my skin, opening my face up like the zipper on a children's backpack.  
A fine mess I got myself into.  
He's a killer, but not _the_ killer.

My client is out there right now, totally exposed, no protection, while I am about to get an amateur facelift.  
Before Mr. Vulture can start cutting there is a knock at the upstairs door.  
He looks up at the basement ceiling like he can see right through the floor.  
I can say, "If you have company, I can come back later."  
He takes the blade away from my face and goes to the basement door. "Hang around." he says.  
I fake a laugh just to show him that I got the joke.  
The sound of his feet recede up the stairs.  
Its too much to hope that the police are on the front step.  
Maybe the cabbie called the cops.  
Doubtful.  
With my luck it's probably a door-to-door vacuum salesman.  
Whoever it is, they give me a few seconds to come up with a plan. The hook is attached to the ceiling with rusty-looking bolts.  
They might give if I bounce up and down.  
Also, a wall display full of sharp objects is close enough I may reach it with my feet, you may be able to stab him when he comes near.  
Another option is to swing my body high and try to catch a hold of the nearby shelving with my feet and pull myself off the hook.  
Funny choice of words, getting myself off the hook.  
I push the thought out of my mind and swing myself toward the wall and manage to plant one foot on a shelf containing a collection of scalpels, knocking several to the floor in process.  
They make a musical jingle on the concrete.  
Before I can attempt any upward pressure, my foot ships off and I swing back.  
Words are exchanged overhead.  
Then shouts.  
There is a scuffle.  
Something heavy lands on the,floor, shaking dust loose from the ceiling.  
A dozen scenarios race through my mind.  
The worst being Maura or Lora.  
Either could have foolishly followed me.  
But I can't worry about that now.  
I swing myself at the wall again and again until I get a foothold.  
I am now at the angle with one foot on a shelf and my body leaning.  
It takes every scrap strength left, but I push myself high enough so I that the ropes clear the hook and I crash down on the cold stone floor.  
Just in time, too.  
Footsteps sound on the stairs.  
He's coming back and he's dragging something heavy along with him.  
I can hear a weight thud-thudding on each step.  
With my wrists still bound in front, I struggle to my feet.  
My jacket is wadded up in the far corner, so is my shoulder holster.  
But with any luck the Glock is still in it.  
Alternatively, there are an assortment of weapons hanging on the shelf nearby.  
There is an Arabian sword that was certainly designed to kill people efficiently.  
There's also an industrial - sized meat tenderizer, cakes with blood, hanging next to the sword which offers a slower, perhaps more deserving death for this psycho.  
I select an Arabian from the wall.  
It's curved and dangerous and sharp.  
Then I position myself to the left of the door, ready when he walks in.  
He'll never see it coming.  
The basement door swings in.  
The Vulture fills the frame.  
He's dragging the limp body of the cabbie by the collar and he's still got the knife in hand.  
The cabbie is wearing a nasty gash on his forehead.  
It's hard to tell if he's dead or just knocked out.  
Before the Vulture can react to the empty hook, I step around the door frame and swing the sword like a batter trying to knock one over the outfield fence.  
The blade passes through his crunch as it separates the spinal column.  
His head, with a surprised look frozen on his face, pops into the air, hits the floor and rolls.  
A line of blood spurts out the ragged neck hole, spraying me right in the face.  
The headless body topples.  
The cabbie groans, sits up and shakes his head.  
His eyes open and he looks first at the headless body, then at me with a bloody sword in my hand.  
The Vulture is dead.  
Even if he wasn't the one that brought down the lighting fixture, or the one that killed Joanie and Deedee, he was a sadistic maniac.  
The world's a better place without him.  
I sit down on the stone floor next to the cabbie and let out a long sigh.  
"He dead?", the cabbie thrusts his chin at the body on the floor.  
I give a single nod.  
The cabbie reaches one shaking hand into his pocket and comes out with a cigarette.  
It takes him three tries to light it.  
But he finally gets it burning and takes a long drag.  
A line of smoke curls in lazy arcs toward the ceiling.  
He passes the lit cigarette to me and lights another for himself.  
I take the smoke and say, "You came in after me."  
He shrugs, "When you didn't came out after a while, I figured you need some help."  
"You were right.", I say and smile slightly. "Still, not many would do that."  
He shrugs again, then sticks a pudgy hand out.  
I don't hesitate and take it.  
He smiles and says, "Hank Thomas."  
"Jane Rizzoli."  
I retrieve my jacket and shoulder holster from the corner and then begin to rummage around the torture chamber.  
At least, I find my Glock in a drawer.  
I pull the clip out, check that its still loaded, and return the comforting feeling of the shoulder holster including the weight of the gun back on my body.  
I and Hank limp upstairs, locate a phone and dail 911.  
Ten minutes later half-dozen patrol cars surrounded the building.  
Their blue lights blaze through the barred-up windows of the dilapidated house.  
My old partner, Vince Korsak, is the first one at the door.  
He puts on some weight and the blood vessels in his bulbons nose are darker than I remember.  
He even got more gray hairs.  
He's the only guy on the force who believed I were innocent of my wife's murder.  
He still is, for that matter.  
He gives you a nod.  
I nod back.  
"Rizzoli, what have you got yourself into this time?"  
I take the cigarette out of my mouth and blow a cloud of blue smoke. "You should thank me." I say. "I put down a freaking serial killer for you."  
"Uh-huh" Korsak says. "Let's have a look."  
You lead Korsak and two officers downstairs to the body.  
He gives a low whistle at the sight of the basement cluttered with torture devices and splashes of blood.  
A search of the house turns up a shoe box full of tokens from past victims.  
I am eager to get out of here.  
I need to get back to the club and make sure Maura is alright, but the police have a thousand and one questions.  
Statements have to be taken.  
It's standard procedure.  
You endure the line of questioning out of the respect for Korsak.  
He does his level best to avoid asking me questions I have to answer to, like, _Why did you follow a dangerous suspect into the house instead of calling the police_?

He questions the cabbie as well and then cuts the two of you lose.  
"Jane." he says, stopping you at the front door. "Keep your nose clean, huh?"  
"You too, Vince."


	3. Chapter 3

Hank gives me a lift, free of charge, back to the club.  
A pair of fire trucks are parked out front.  
A few bored looking firemen hang around the engines.  
Looks like they got there before the place burned down, though honestly there wasn't much danger of that.  
The stage will probably need some repairs.  
"Call me anytime."  
"Will do, pal."  
A fire chief tells me not to enter.  
I ignore him.  
Maura, Lora and the rest of the girls are gathered round the bar but the foppish manager is absent.  
A few more firemen hang about inside.  
The twisted lighting fixture lies upon the stage like the metal bones of a giant serpent.  
The fires are out, but the red velvet curtain is cinders.  
Maura is back in her dressing gown, her ankle wrapped in a bandage.  
Other than that she looks okay.  
She sees me, slides off the bar tip, and wraps her arms around me. "I'm so glad you're okay. Did you catch him?"  
"Yes." I tell her. "Well, no. It's complicated. I followed him back to his house, but he's not the guy."  
"You mean ..."  
"I mean someone else tried to kill you." I say.  
"Then you _do_ believe someone is trying to kill me?"

I nod. "There is a bull-eye on your back."  
Tears well up in her eyes.  
I pull her into another hug.  
Her body presses against my chest.  
It's a fine feeling that you haven't felt in a while.  
I say, "Don't worry yourself about it, honey. I'm going to sort this out."  
Lora is standing at the bar with a drink in her hand.  
She swishes it and says dryly. "Before someone else gets killed?"  
"No one is going to get killed." I tell her. "Nit while I'm around."  
She arches a sculpted brow. "I feel better already."  
I give her a hard look.  
She shrugs and raises her glass.  
The rest of the cast is looking at me, like they expect me to give out directions.  
I let go of Maura, reluctantly, and look around. "Where's Jeffrey?" I ask.  
"Lit out." Lora says. "Just after the lighting fixture came down. He took off like a bat out if hell."  
I ask, "Anyone know where he went?"  
Blank looks all around.  
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx  
Jeffrey keeps a shabby office in a little room behind the bar.  
On the wall near a threadbare sofa and scarred desk is a fading poster featuring Lora, ten years younger and looking like a million bucks, in a skimpy white flapper dress with beads and legs that go on forever.  
A quick search turns up a scrap of paper with an address and time.  
_221 Harbor Road - 2:00am_

I stuff the scrap in my coat pocket.  
It might be a clue or it might be nothing.  
The fact that Jeffrey is meeting people at two in the morning doesn't bode well.  
It might be tonight, tomorrow night.  
Hard to tell.  
Still, worth looking into.  
My watch says it's a quarter till two.  
The rest of the office fails to turn up anything useful.  
I go through Jeffrey's rolodex without knowing what I'm looking for.  
None of the names mean anything to me.  
"All out of ideas?" a voice intrudes on my search.  
I look up.  
Lora leans in the door frame, drink in hand, looking every bit as good as her poster.  
"Jeffrey have any enemies?" I ask.  
She shrugs. "Hard to say. He and I didn't exactly get along."  
A little smile curls up one side of my mouth. "So you had reason to hurt him?"  
She laughs, "Ample, but the last I saw him he was still alive and well. You think he's in danger?"  
"He might be meeting someone in a few minutes." I say and show her the scrap of paper with the address on it.  
She arches one brow. "Could he be involved?"  
"I'm not ruling it out." I tell her.  
Maura limps into the office.  
She's now wearing a fitted red dress with her hair up.  
A line of dark mascara still streaks one cheek. "Find anything?"  
"Maybe." I quickly tell her about the scrap of paper. "I have to get going if I'm going to check this out."  
She shakes her head as she trails after you to the door. "I can't believe Jeffrey would want to hurt any of the girls."  
"Me neither." Lora murmurs. "It's not in his nature."  
"Thought you didn't like him." I say.  
"I don't, but he wouldn't hurt anybody."  
"We'll find out." I tell them. "For now, Maura, I want you to stick to me like a shadow. You're in danger."  
Maura nods.  
A small, knowing smile curls up one side of Lora's mouth as I brush past her out of the door.  
She says softly, "What about the rest of us? Don't you want me to stick close, Jane?"  
I leave a look as I catch my breath. "I can't watch all of you at the same time and solve this thing. You girls will just have to stick together and watch each other."  
"You hear that, Ladies?" Lora calls through the door. "We all have to stick together. We'll have a sleepover, put on our jammies and have pillow fights."  
"Take pictures for me." I hand Lora my card and lower my voice. "Seriously, keep them together and keep them safe. If anything happens, call me."  
She takes my business card and slips it into the top of her dress.  
I smile to myself as I realize that I've never envied my business card before.  
"Watch yourself, Jane."  
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx  
I and Maura take my car across the town.  
221 Harbor Road is a shipping yard surrounded by chain-link dances topped with barbed wire.  
I climb out of my car.  
Maura follows.  
Through the dance I can see rows of moonlit warehouses, a few derelict shrimping boats and a large collection of rusting metal detritus scattered about the grounds.  
Cozy place for a meeting.  
"I know this place." I whisper to Maura.  
She questions me with a look.  
"Owned by a mobster called Seamus _the Shark._ He got his start as an enforcer, breaking thumbs, worked his way up through the ranks. Now he runs the outfit."

"How do you know that?"  
"Used to be a cop."  
"What happened?"  
"Maybe I just prefer the freedom that comes with freelance investigations."  
She makes a noise that implies a certain level of skepticism.  
I change the subject and try to regain my focus. "If Jeffrey is involved with the Irish mob, it's bad news. I don't like the idea of leaving you alone even less. Think you can stay quiet?"  
She ignores me, "How do you plan on getting inside? Those gates are chained up tight.  
"I'm not going to knock. That's for sure. Come on."  
Me and Maura stroll around the chain-linked fence.  
The place looks abandoned.  
If there is anyone inside, they are keeping a low profile.  
Maybe the meeting was last night.  
Maybe I already missed the action.  
Either way, I'm determined to have a look around.  
I find a place where the fence is loosen.  
I could probably squeeze under.  
It could ruin Maura's dress.  
I could also trying going over.  
Maura gives a shiver and rubs her arms against the chill autumn air. "Any plans?"  
I drop down to the wet concrete, push up the chain-link and shimmy under.  
The wire snags at my overcoat, creating more holes.  
I'll need a new one by the time I close this case, but I make it through.  
On the other side, I stand and pull up on the chain-link, looking expectantly at Maura.  
"You've got to be kidding me?"  
I shrug. "It's that or wait out here." I tell her. "Alone."  
She sighs, drops down onto her belly and crawls under.  
She has more in the trunk than me, apparently, and the sharp ends of the wire fence catch her bottom.  
She squeals.  
I tug on the fence, but can't lift it any higher.  
"I'm stuck." she says  
"Don't panic." I place my hands on the top of her butt and push down.  
"Mrs. Rizzoli!"  
"My apologies, but this appears to be the problem area. You keep wiggling and I'll be pushing." I say as I alternate shoving her bottom down while unsticking the fence from the fabric of her dress.  
Now that I have a feeling on things, I realize it's not so much her trunk that is getting her stuck, although it does have a nice of bubble to it, it's that her dress is a bit fluffy.  
She wiggles and squeezes her way through.  
She picks herself up from the ground looking mutinous.  
The front of her dress is covered in wet and dirt.  
She groans dismally as she starts to brush herself off. "You know how much this dress costs, Mrs. Rizzoli?"  
"Undoubtedly more than it's worth.", I tell her. "Come on." I take her elbow and steer her toward the nearest warehouse.  
It doesn't take long to find what I am looking for.  
Raised voices issue from the warehouse closest to the water.  
I and Maura cross the yard, using the rusted out hulks of dead fishing boats as cover, then sneak up to a grimy window for a peek.  
Jeffrey is inside and his situation is grim.  
A pair of mafia tough guys have him tied to a rolling office chair and from the looks of him, they've spent the last thirty minutes working him over.  
He's got two eyes that look like swollen pink pufferfish and a nose pointing the wrong direction.  
Maura's fingers sink into my forearm. "We have to help him"  
I shushes her.  
From an office at the back of the warehouse, a red head emerges wearing a suit that costs more than my entire wardrobe.  
Seamus has piled an even more layers of muscles since last I saw him.  
He wheels a second office chair over and plants himself squarely in front of Jeffrey.  
He gives Jeffrey a slap across the face and then takes a moment to adjust the cuffs on his silk shirt. "Now. Where is the money?"  
"I'll get the money." Jeffrey says through swollen lips.  
His voice cracks and trembles. "Just don't hurt any more of the girls."  
I give Maura a meaningful look.  
Her lips presses together into a straight line.  
Seamus spread his hands. "What are you talking about? I don't go around beating on women. Sides, those ladies aren't the ones owe me money." Seamus leans forward until he and Jeffrey are nose to nose. "You owe me money, Jeffrey. You owe me a lot of money. And I'm tired of waiting."  
"Give me a little more time." Jeffrey pleads.  
Seamus leans back in his chair. "You been stringing me alone for two years now with your promises. The club of yours is never going to turn a profit. Guys don't want to watch them girls dance. They want lap dances. Hand jobs." he leans forward again. "Blow jobs."  
Jeffrey shakes his head. "We are an art troupe not -"  
Seamus cuts him short with another slap. "Wise up. Your days as a business owner are over, Jeff. In lien of payment you are going to sign the club over to me and I'll take over the day-to-day operations." he laces his fingers together and grins. "Those little tramps want to keep their jobs, they'll have to expand their _repertoire_."

Jeffrey spits. It doesn't go far.  
In fact it lands in his lap, but it's the thought that counts.  
He's got plenty of spirit for such a small-minded guy.  
Not that it would do him any good.  
Seamus doesn't look impressed.  
He stands and motion at his two gorillas. "I'm going to let Frank and Billy entertain you. I'll be in my office. Tell them when you're ready to sign."  
"You'll have to kill me.", Jeffrey says.  
It's a resigned and broken statement.  
The mobsters might not believe him, but I can hear the conviction in his voice.  
He's ready to die to protect the girls.  
Foolish but noble.  
Seamus goes to the office and closes the door.  
Frank and Billy take turns using Jeffrey's face to work out their childhood issues.  
The fist punch sounds like a meaty crunch.  
Maura squeals.  
I shush her again.  
"What are we going to do?" she whispers.  
"We ought to leave him.", I tell her. "He got himself into this mess. He can get himself out."  
Her eyes narrow to dangerous slits.  
"You ready to cross swords with the mob?" I ask, exasperated.  
"You ready to let an innocent man die?" she retorts.  
I press my lips together and exhale through my nose.  
The flat hacking sounds of knuckles against flesh penetrate the grimy window.  
Each pulpy crunch is punctuated by grunts and whimpers.  
Jeffrey is holding out, but he won't last forever.  
He'll cave, and when Seamus _the Shark_ will own the club.

It will be one more lousy whorehouse in a town already full of them.  
Maybe some of the girls will walk.  
Most won't have anywhere to go.  
I didn't sign in to fight the mob, but the thought of Maura and Lora getting pimped out by Seamus the Shark don't sit right with me either.  
I bring the black Glock out of its holster and check the clip that it is fully loaded, then I work the slide. "They won't know what hit them." I tell Maura.  
Her lips compress, but she nods.  
"You wait here, but if they punch my ticket, take the first bus out of town and don't look back. Go some place warm maybe. Doesn't matter where. Just don't hang around here." I wink and try to smile, but it feels forced. Probably looks forced, too.  
Through the corrugated wall of the warehouse I can hear Frank and Billy beating the stuffing out of Jeffrey, whose grunts have stopped.  
A bad sign.  
It's now or never.  
I circle round to the front door of the warehouse.  
The large door stands open like the dark mouth of an open tomb.  
A cold wind, smelling like salt water and decomposing fish, tugs at my coat.  
Feeling like the sheriff in a TV western, I wade inside.  
My heart knocks against the wall of my chest and my knees feel like someone replaced the bones with tapioca pudding. But there is another feeling in the pit of my belly. A vivid red fury brightens the night and warms up my guts.  
All the anger and disgust I have for humanity in general is ready to pour out on Seamus and his two goons.  
Consequences be damned.  
Jeffrey is strapped to the rolling chair, his back to me.  
Frank is standing in front of him, one hand gripping Jeffrey's hair to keep his face up.  
The other ham-seized fist is cocked back and ready to fly.  
Billy is watching his partner and not paying any attention to the door.  
He never sees me coming.  
I center the front sight on his ear and pull the trigger.  
A tongue of flame licks from the barrel.  
The heavy thunder clap bounces around the metal walls of the warehouse.  
Billy's ear disappears in a cloud of red.  
His knees buckle and he drops to the floor.  
His ruined head impacts with the sound of rotten fruit.  
Brains pour out.  
Frank curses.  
His hand goes to the small of his back.  
I retrain my gun on his chest.  
His hand reappears with a big .45 caliber semi-automatic.  
I squeeze the trigger and a hole opens in Frank's chest high on the right side.  
It's not a killing shit, but it was enough to throw off his arm.  
He pulls the trigger on the big .45 caliber.  
An angry lead hornet buzzes past my ear.  
Any closer it would have taken my head off.  
I fire a second shot in his chest.  
He staggers backward, looks down at the stain spreading across his shirt and then falls down with a thud.  
The sharp stench of gunpowder hangs in the air.  
Jeffrey struggles to swivel his chair around until he can see over his shoulder. "Help me." he gasps. "Cut me loose."  
His tongue is thick and it sounds like he's speaking underwater, but at least he's awake.  
Jeffrey is begging to be untied, but Seamus is still in the office and he heard the shots.  
There is no telling what kind of hardware he's got in there.  
The Irishman could loading up a belt-fed machine gun right now and I've only got nine shots left in my Glock.  
I hurry past Jeffrey."Sit tight." I say.  
I have just enough time to flatten myself against the wall of the office before the door flies open.  
The Shark comes out waving a massive revolver.  
His lips are peeled back in a snarl.  
He thumbs back the hammer, looks for a target and funds only Jeffrey still tied on the rolling chair.  
I press the nuzzle of my gun to Seamus' ear. "Drop that heater or I splatter you."  
He eases back the hammer. His lips close.  
He let the gun hit the ground.  
I kick it across the floor.  
It disappears beneath a motorized conveyor belt.  
"You ought to pull that trigger, colleen." says Seamus. "Do you have any idea who you are dealing with? I'm going to put you in the grave."  
"No chance we can settle this over a couple of beers?" I ask and furrows my eyebrows.  
"You think this is a joke. I'm going to find you. You can't run far enough. You might as well put that gun in your mouth and blow your own brains out."  
"You've got a lot of pent up aggression, Seamus. Make the switch to decaf. Or maybe a hot bath at the end of a long day. It does me a world of good."  
Seamus turn to face me. He looks at me over and sneers. "You ain't got the stones to pull the trigger."  
"Sure about that?"  
For a long moment, the two of you face off.  
Each trying to size the other up.  
A pair of steel blue eyes bore into your own dark ones.  
He didn't get his nickname because of his fluffy demeanor.  
He's a cold blooded killer, a great white and I just jumped into his water.  
This can't end well  
But I hold my ground and hope _the Shark_ will back down.

Instead he lunges.  
I skip back a step and pull the trigger.  
The bullet blows the top of his ear off in a red mist.  
Seamus claps a hand to the side of his head, screams and jumps through the office door, kicking it close behind him.  
I hear the lock click into place.  
The wheels on the office chair rattle and squeal as I hurry Jeffrey toward the exit.  
The wide open loading bay door and the salty sea air beckon.  
My heart pumps electricity to my arms and legs.  
I just want to be out of here.  
It was another dead end and the culprit I were hired to find is still out there, even now cooking up some new devilry.  
As the thought crosses my mind I hear an,ominous whisper on my left.  
A large yellow cage, padlocked and full of propane tanks stands against the wall.  
The shadow in that corner of the warehouse seem to coalesce and shift, like creeping black fingers.  
One of the tanks inside the cage vibrates and jerks like some invisible force is sending a current through it.  
This tells me three things;  
1: I am most certainly dealing with some form of black magic.  
2: Maura isn't the only target. I am now on the list as well.  
Oh joy.  
And 3: I have just seconds to get out of the warehouse before it explodes.  
The propane tank hisses and rattles and knocks around inside the bug yellow cage like a kid on a sugar high.  
It causes a hell of a racket, drowned out only by the sound of my heels drumming the concrete and the blood pounding in my ears as I race for Jeffrey in his office chair.  
The other propane tanks pick up the vibration.  
The entire cage,is rocking and rolling now, doing the shimmy-shimmy shake across the warehouse floor.  
It's going to blow any second.  
Wheeling Jeffrey along is slowing me down.  
With all my might, I push Jeffrey along the floor and out the loading bay door.  
The concussion hammers my ear drums and I feel the force of the explosion at my back.  
The resulting shock waves scoops me off my feet, throwing me and Jeffrey off the dock.  
I go head over heels of the bay with a splash and a gurgle.  
Water rushes around my ears.  
Black envelopes me.  
The last of my air escapes through my open mouth.  
The bubbles race toward the surface in the form of silver jelly fish.  
I follow the bibles. My lungs screams for oxygen.  
My arms and legs feel like lead.  
My clothes try to drag me back down.  
The surface of the water is lit by the fire.  
Orange light dances and shimmers overhead.  
I will myself upward, desperate for air, sure I'll never make it and then my head breaks the surface.  
I gasp and cough, spitting out sea water in exchange for precious oxygen.

It was a close race and for several seconds it's all I can do to tread water.  
It feel like a city bus wan me over.  
My back will be black and blue tomorrow, but I got off lucky.  
The explosion might have ripped me in half.  
The warehouse is fiery conflagration.  
Bits of burning debris float atop of the water.  
Jeffrey and the office chair are nowhere to be seen.  
Poor bastard.  
I paddle to the dock and sling one tired arm up, grasping for a hand hold.  
Fingers lock around my wrist.  
Maura is looking down at me. She helps me to haul me back onto dry ground.  
"Jeffrey?" she asks a little out of breath.  
I shake my head.  
She looks out over the water. Tears well up in her eyes.  
I pull her into a hug.  
Her shoulders shake and the water works start.  
I let her carry on a bit as I look for signs of him and then whisper, "It's not safe here, honey. We have to go."  
It's nearly four in the morning by the time we reach my office.  
With no traffic on the streets, we get there quite fast.  
Maura carries her high-heeled shoes, patting along barefoot. Her dress is filthy, her hair is in disarray and somehow she still manages to look beautiful.  
I open to the office, allow Maura to go first, and then lock the door behind me.  
It feels like a million years since I set foot here.  
I am bruised, beaten, scorched and tired and all I want to di is fall onto the ratty sofa and have a good long sleep, but there is Maura to think of.  
"Can I get you anything?" I ask. "Coffee or something stronger?"  
She slumps down into one of the chairs facing my desk with her high-heeled shoes still dangling from her right hand. "Something stronger," she says  
I find a bottle of bourbon in a desk drawer and pour two glasses.  
The pair of you sit in silence and drink.  
She finishes hers off and I hold,up the bottle to indicate a refill.  
She shakes her head. "I just want to get cleaned up and then sleep. Do you think we're safe here?"  
"Safe as anywhere," I tell her, leaving off the fact that nowhere is particularly safe at the moment.  
Black magic can be directed at anyone, anywhere in the world.  
A sorcerer doesn't have to see his victim: he only needs to know where the target is.  
I nod my head at the washroom door. "There is a shower in the bathroom and a clean towel in the rack."  
She outs her empty glass down, gets up and stops in the bathroom door. "Thank you, Jane."  
"Don't thank me yet, Maura. We still have to figure out who put the hex on you and stop them."  
"Still," she says. She looks like she wants to say she goes into the bathroom and closes the door.  
There is silence and then I hear the shower come on.  
I down my drink trying not to think about Maura on the other side of that door getting undressed and stepping under the steam of hot water.  
Rivulets running down her naked skin.  
Soap.  
Steam.  
Trying not to think about it more.  
I put my glass down, stand up and walk a circle around the small office trying to distract myself.  
I hesitate at the door, one hand on the knob.  
The sound of the water changes as she moves under the jet.  
My heart does a little tap at the walls of my chest.  
This is either the best or the worst decision I've made all night.  
I turn the knob, open the door and put one foot onto the linoleum.  
"Jane?" she ask. "Is that you?"  
The bathroom is full of steam, but I can see the outline of Maura's body through the cheap plastic shower curtain. It's a fantastic silhouette. "It's me." I tell her. "Need anything?"  
"No." She sticks her head out of the curtain.  
Her hair is plastered to her skull. Water drops from her nose and chin. "What do you need?" she asks.  
Summoning up my courage, I say, "I just thought I could use a shower, too." I shrug out of my soggy coat and start to unbutton my blouse.  
"Oh." Maura bites her lip and looks flustered. "I'd actually had to think of you before you came in here, Jane. Would you like to join me?" Shr ducks back behind the curtain.  
I stand there rather baffled.  
Then I come back to my senses and get rid of my clothes as fast as I ca and hop under the shower to accept her invitation.


	4. Chapter 4

Sleep is a long time coming, but I finally drift off and in no time at all Maura is shaking you awake.  
"Jane? Can you hear me?"  
I grunt and she sighs in relief, asking pleasantly, "How did you sleep?"  
"Just great," I lie. "You?"  
"Not well." she admits. "Someone is still trying to kill me. I suppose that sort of thing can wreck a girl's sleep."  
"I suppose so," I tell her.  
"Do we have a plan, Jane?"  
I yawn and stagger into the bathroom, splash cold water on my face and brush my teeth while I formulate.  
Maura has a death curse hanging over her.  
Magic like that, once it has been cast, keeps coming back until it gets the job done.  
Like the proverbial bad penny, it will just keep turning up.  
Even if I figure out who cast the spell, caught them and kill them, the curse would still kill Maura.  
First order of business is disarming the death curse, but that kind of magic is way out of my league.  
Even if I had the right spell components and knew the counter spell, it probably wouldn't work.  
I don't have a whole lot of talent for dismissing black magic courses, but I know someone who might be able to help.  
I pat my face dry with a mostly clean towel and then I pour myself a drink from the bottle on my desk. "Someone put a powerful hex on you," I tell Maura. "A death curse to be exact. We're going to see about getting it dispelled."  
"How come we didn't do that from the beginning?"  
"Two reasons," I say. "First, I couldn't be sure we were actually dealing with magic. Some people see poltergeists in every shadow."  
She crosses her arms and tilts her head to the side skeptically. "And the second?"  
I pick up my coat, find it still soaking wet and attempt to wring out some of the moisture. "This is high level magic. It don't come free," I tell her.  
She puts her fists on her hips. "Are you attempting to get more money out of me, Mrs. Rizzoli?"  
"Money isn't the issue."  
"You just said it wouldn't be free."  
"I said it wouldn't be free. I didn't say it costs money." I take my Glock from the desk drawer, pull on my damp, wrinkled overcoat, pick up the phone and fail Hank's number.  
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx  
Another five Dollar cab ride takes us to the outskirts of town, along a dusty road to the front gate of a forgotten circus.  
The wrought-iron fence that hems in the grounds is grown over with creeper vines.  
The tents, their red and yellow stripes bleached by the sun, look like they've been standing there long before the city came along and they'll go on standing long after the port town has dried up and all the people move on.  
A breeze lifts the top of the nearest tent. It snaps back down.  
A large Ferris wheel rears up at one corner of the park like an ancient monolith to a forgotten god.  
There is a rusting old tilt-a-whirl and a gilded carousel, too.  
The sign over the front gate reads _Cirque du Curieux_.

The tires crunch on the gravel drive.  
Hank shifts into park, plucks the stub of cigar from his mouth and gives a low whistle. "Sure this is you want to be, hun?"  
Maura cranks down her window. She looks at the circus and then back at,me. "The circus?" she asks. "We're going to the circus?"  
"What's the matter?" I open my door and climb out. "You don't like carnival games?"  
Hank leans out of the window. "Want I should wait?"  
"Thanks." I fok over another five clams to keep him waiting, then head round the hood of the car toward the front gate.  
Maura steps out of the cab and her high heels sink into the loose gravel.  
She does an awkward wriggle and shake, but stays on her feet.  
A big, heavy padlock, secures the gate.  
She sees it and asks, "Over or under this time?"  
I give her an obvious once over and start to say I take either.  
She leaves a look at me, and I reconsider saying it aloud.  
I mention to the gate. "Just give it a push."  
"It's locked."  
"Trust me."  
Maura, rolling her eyes, puts a hand up to push.  
Before her fingers even make contact, the padlock opens with a clank and the gate swings in.  
"Okaaaay" She takes a step back. "That was strange."  
"You know what Curieux means in French?" I indicate thwrought-iron sign overhead.  
Maura shrugs one shoulder.  
"Curious," I tell her. "The Curious Circus. Things get a little strange in here, dollface. Watch your step and don't get lost."  
She's walking so close your elbows are touching.  
She does her level best to watch everywhere at once. "I didn't even know there was a circus in town," she tells me.  
"There isn't," I tell her. "At least not in that sense. The Cirque du Curieux has always been here, long as I can remember. Most people stay away. I've only have occasion to be here twice. Both were very surreal experiences."  
"Does it open?" She asks. "You know, like at night. All the lights come on and clowns out. Kids, music, rides? The place looks deserted."  
She's holding onto my arm now.  
"I've never heard of being open." I shake my head.  
"I don't like it here, Jane. Let's go back."  
"Not yet," I tell her. "First we have to get rid of the hex."  
"But the place is empty."  
I point between a pair of tents to a mechanical fortune teller.  
"You're kidding."  
Ignoring her, I proceed up the tall box with the swarthy, goateed mannequin in a large purple turban.  
He, it, has eyes like coal that cause gooseflesh to march up my arms.  
I put a nickel in the coin slot and turn the knob, saying. "I need to see him.", as you do so.  
There is a dispenser on the front of the machine where the fortune card rattles into place.  
I take the card and turn it over.  
_Not likely_.

Maura takes a step back. "Did you just talk to that machine?"  
I nod. "Give it a try, but don't let him get to you."  
She shakes her head wonderingly. "It's not even plugged in."  
Turning back to Zoltar I say, "Listen, this is important. Could you let me in?"  
Another card drops into the slot.

_Piss off_.

I crumple the card and toss it at Zoltar's plastic face.  
The crumpled wad bounce off the glass and falls to the ground. Still, it made me feel a little better.  
I don't like taking guff from a machine, but I need to see Pasha, the Gypsy. He'll know how to lift the hex on Maura, if it can be done at all.  
Since Zoltar is just a box with a wooden head in it, he ought to know better than to mess with someone who could push him over. Maybe I need to make that clear?  
On the other hand, perhaps Maura can sweet talk the machine?  
Finally, there's always the option of just looking for Pasha lair.  
It has to be around here somewhere.  
Taking a moment to control my annoyance, I turn to Maura and say, "He's got a soft spot for pretty ladies. Hell, if I'd been trapped inside a box for a thousand years I'd be a bit randy myself. Ask him to let us in."  
"You want me to talk to it?"  
I give an encouraging nod.  
She rakes a hand through her hair and steps in front of Zoltar. "Um, hello, could you let us in please?"  
A card drops into the slot.  
I take it and turn it up so Maura can read as well.  
_Show me your goods_.

"What?" Maura's mouth drops open. "No way."  
Another card drops.  
_Fine. Stay here then_.

Feeling sorry for Zoltar's isolation, I say. "You know, you could give him a peak." You're laughing now.  
"This ... Puppet or whatever it is, wants to get fresh! Why don't you be a man and shake his cage a little?" she says.  
"Maura, it's just a wooden head. He just stares out that glass all day and night. Have some pity and five him a thrill."  
Maura sighs. "Alright, but you have to turn your back."  
"I've already seen them," I say with an amused smirk.  
"Turn around," Maura orders.  
I take three big steps back until I am behind Maura and spread my hands. "Will do this?"  
She shrugs, now all business, hooks her thumbs through the shoulder straps on her dress and pulls the top down.  
All of Zoltar's lights turn on and his wooden mouth drops open.  
Maybe I am imagining it, but his eyes seem to widen.  
Maura sighs, waits another few seconds, and then pulls her top back up.  
The lights stay on and his mouth continues to hang.  
A card clicks into the slot.  
Maura takes this one and turns it over.  
_Yowza_!

She gives him a hard smile that doesn't go to her eyes and says, "Now would you please let us in?"  
Rather than a card, a pair of Harlequins come flipping and tumbling out from behind the nearest tent.  
One male. One female.  
At first glance, they appear to be wearing red and black diamond body stockings.  
But a closer look shows me the red and black diamond patterns have been bare skin.  
Black masks covers their faces.  
Their black rubber noses are a foot long.  
Then it occurs that these might not be masks at all.  
The thought sends a shiver tip-toeing up my spine.  
The harlequins come to a stop facing each other.  
They lean in until their long noses are almost touching and then blow a kiss.  
Their heads swivel to face me.  
They move like automatons.  
Their heads bobble slightly as they reach the end of the movement.  
They bow in unison, step back and sweep their arms with a flourish.  
Behind them stands a gyspy caravan where there had been only empty air a moment ago.  
Maura hurries after me, but the harlequins cartwheel her path, barring her entry.  
A card drops into Zoltar's slot.  
Maura goes and reads. "Only her."  
I hadn't planned on that.  
Leaving Maura here, unattended, makes me nervous.  
A lot could happen.  
The worst being that I have absolutely no idea what could happen.  
I am a detective, not a magician, and I am drabbling in a world where I don't know all the rules.  
But getting the death curses removed is more important.  
"Stay here," I tell her. "Do not wander off."  
"You're going to leave me here?"  
"You'll be fine,", I say, hoping it's true. "Just stay put. I'll be out in a minute."  
"No," she shakes her head. "Absolutely not. You aren't leaving me out here with this randy fortune-telling machine!" She faces Zoltar again and pulls her top down, gives a little shake and asks, "Can I go in?"  
Zoltar, his lights still on and his mouth hanging open, remains silent.  
No card.  
"Maura, it's going to be fine," I say. "Just stay here."  
She pulls her top back up. "Fine. But don't be long."  
"I'll be back in two shakes of a lamb's tail, sweety." I pull open the brightly painted door of the caravan and step inside.  
The caravan is bigger inside than it looks from the outside.  
Not much bigger, but there is room to move around.  
That's often the case with magical abodes, though I couldn't say why.  
It disturbed and disoriented me the first time.  
Now I don't bother questioning it.  
Go trying figure these things out and I might drive myself insane.  
The place is cluttered with colorful pillows, cooking pans, bladed weapons, scarves, a hookah pipe, mason jars full of medical ingredients and more things I don't even recognize.  
I certainly couldn't name them.  
Amongst all this various and sundry chaos sits a wizened old man with watery black eyes and skin like dried-up parchment.  
He's in purple baggy pants and a blue vest, sitting cross-legged on the low stool.  
If he pulled out a rug and flew away, it wouldn't surprise me much.  
He takes a hit from the hookah pipe and blows vapor in my direction.

The sickly-sweet smell of whatever he is smoking invades your nostrils.  
I tip my head at him. "Pasha. Always good to see you."  
Pasha sniffs.  
I unearth another stool from a mountain of blankets, pillows and yarn, have a seat and say, "I need a counter spell. Someone is trying to kill a friend using some serious mojo. Maybe some of those defensive charms wouldn't go amiss either.  
Pasha continues puffing on the hookah.  
His watery eyes bore into mine lime he can see right down into my soul.  
"Look, I know we've never seen eye-to-eye, "I tell him. "But a lot of innocent people are getting killed. More are going to die unless you help me counter that death curse. What's it going to take to earn your help?"  
The old gypsy takes his lips off the pipe long enough to say, "A memory."  
His voice is like dried-up parchment with thick Romani accent.  
I can't help but laugh. "You want one of my memories? I have to warn you, old timer, most of them aren't so great."  
"Then you have no reason to horde them," Pasha says.  
I consider his offer and shake my head.  
Memories are tricky things.  
You keep them in your head for a reason.  
What if you can't remember your own name when he's done.  
How will I help Maura if I don't even know who I am?  
It's an awful gamble.  
I get up and and start for the door. "That's asking a lot, Pasha."  
He inclines his head. "So you are you, Miss Jane. A death curse is not easily cast and much harder to dispel. Even if you find and kill your enemy, the curse will be in effect."  
That stops me from walking out.  
What good will it do to find the killer if I can't stop the curse for killing?  
I hesitate with my hand on the door knob. "What memory so you want?"  
"You are not such a fool." He grins. "You will still remember your name."  
It's not the first time Pasha has said something that leaves me feeling he can read minds.  
I take a seat in the stool, chew the inside of my cheek as I think it over and then say, "Alright. But I want your word you can lift the death curse."  
"It will be dispelled," he assures me. "And I can give you a powerful totem to use against the evil sorcerer. It will offer you protection."  
"Alright," I nod. "Which memory do you want? Something from my childhood?"  
Pasha's weathered his lips from a lopsided grin.  
He passes the hookah piper over and motions for me to inhale.  
Suddenly wary of what I might be getting into, I take a pull.  
The caravan starts to tilt.  
The roaring of the ocean fills my ears.  
I feel my eyelids getting heavy and then I'm floating through a void.  
Smoke envelopes me and when Ii look close, I find little memories, just pictures, in the nimbus clouds.  
There are sounds too, distant but growing louder, more distinct.  
One of the nimbus memory clouds envelopes me.

_I am at a house party, walking around the swimming pool with a drink in hand._  
_I am wearing my police uniform._  
_It's late in the evening and the light in the swimming pool turns the water to a rippling blue with hints of yellow._  
_Everyone is laughing, having a good time._  
_There are other police uniforms mingling with the crowd._  
_It's graduation day._  
_Me and the other recruits spent the morning sitting through the ceremony._  
_Now it's party time._  
_My best friend from academy calls my name._  
_I turn._  
_Trevor has a girl by the wrist, pulling her through the crowd._  
_Her skin is the color sun kisses and her hair is gold blonde._  
_She has big green eyes and a mouth that is a little to small for her face, but then she smiles and it all comes together._  
_Seeing her smile is like watching a flower bloom._  
_She's in an emerald green dress that shows off her shoulders and they are worth showing off._  
_Trevor, well on his way to drunk, motions to her with his plastic cup, sloshing some beer in process. "Jane, this my cousin, Rose. Rose, this is the girl was telling you about. Jane Rizzoli. Jane and I are going to be partners._  
_I offer my hand._  
She takes it.  
_Her hand is small, almost dainty, but she's got callouses, like she's used to physical work._  
_"Trevor told me a lot about you," she says._  
_I open my mouth to reply, but I get lost in those green eyes and that smile ..._  
_I know right then and there, this is the girl I want to marry._  
_This is the girl I want to spend the rest of my life with._  
_I finally find my voice and say ..._

But the memory is gone.  
I am back in the caravan, facing the old gypsy, holding the hookah.  
Her face, her smile, the first time I met her it's all slipping away.  
The conscious mind still knows it happened, but I can't bring the pictures or the sounds up from the well of memories.  
I drop the hookah and stand up. "Not that one," I tell him. "You can have any one, but not that one!"  
His boney shoulders rise and fall. He spreads weathered old hands. "It's done."  
I drop back onto the stool and put my face in my hands.  
The rest of the relationship is still there, intact.  
I remember it all; the first date, the first kiss, the first time we made love, the wedding and the honeymoon.  
But the first meeting is gone, erased from my mind. Gone forever.  
As the shock wears off, anger sets in and my fists clench.  
Plugging the old gypsy in the face would probably be detrimental.  
Things don't work the same here, whenever here is.  
Still, he didn't tell me he'd take something so precious.  
I let out a shaky breath, scrub my face with my hands and use the motion to wipe away a tear that found its way out. I made my bargain.  
Now I have to live with it.  
I should have negotiated the particulars of the deal before agreeing, but that's water under the bridge.  
"Mrs. Rizzoli," Pasha says and I look up.  
He blows blue smoke at my face.

It's my wedding day.

Rose looks amazing in her dress.  
She's beaming.  
So am I.  
It's the happiest day of my life.  
I live the thing.  
Or more precisely, I re-live the whole thing.  
I experience the whole day in it's glory.  
I come back to the caravan feeling elated.  
Pasha looks on me with kindly eyes.  
The needing day is still intact in my memory.  
Still there. Still mine.  
Re-living was a gift.  
I manage to smile. "Thanks." I mutter.  
Pasha shrugs.  
The old gypsy roots through a chest of drawers out a small silver amulet and passes over to me.  
It's an animal's head, but not any any animal I am familiar with.  
It looks like a cross between a goat and a lion.  
An arcane symbol is carved into the animal's forehead.

The silver feels warm to the touch, like it has some hidden power.  
"This will help you," he tells me. "Think of it like a suit of armor. It will protect you, but only so much."  
I nod and slip the amulet into my pocket. "And the death curse?"  
He wave a hand in the air. "Gone. But I cannot prevent your enemy from casting another. And I doubt you will want to give up any other memories."  
"How hard is it to cast a spell like that?" I ask.  
"It takes time," he says vaguely, which isn't an answer at all. "But if I were you, I'd work fast."  
"That thought **had** occurred to me."  
"Goodbye, Jane Rizzoli."

I tip him salute and step out.

The sun is a father west then it should be.

A quick look at my watch confirms my suspicion.

I've been in Pasha's caravan most of the day.

It's nearly six o'clock.

What felt like minutes were actually hours.

the shadows are getting long.

The day is nearly done.

Also, Maura is nowhere to be seen.

The door to Pasha's caravan won't budge.

The Harlequins are gone, not that they'd answer any questions, and I can't get a response from Zoltar either.

I push his buttons, cajole, plead, even give his box a few good slaps.

He only stares at me with those wooden eyes.

Before walking away, I show him my middle finger.

"Maura!" I shout her name, thinking she might be not too far. Maybe she just went round the corner for a tinkle. "Maura! Where are you?"

No answer.

She could be anywhere.

She might have gotten fed up waiting and left.

I walk to the gate.

Hank's cab is parked right where we left him.

The far cabbie is slumped down in the driver's seat, his eyes closed and his chin on his chest.  
May as well let him sleep.  
I start back through the park keeping my eye lids peeled and trying to think like a woman of Maura's Isles' class.  
Horses leap to mind.  
Girls like Maura love horses.  
I head over to the carousel.  
Weeds have grown up around the base.  
The gilded horses have time-administered scars.  
Some are missing eyes while others missing feet or tails.  
The mares and the geldings stand in frozen motion, doomed to the forever chase the animal in front but never catch.  
Caught in the endless cycle.  
That's no way to live.  
But then, these horses are made of wood.  
And Maura is obviously absent.  
I call her name a few times just to be sure.  
She's not at the Farris wheel, or the tilt-a-whirl.

I search various tents, rides and carnival games, calling her name.  
It's getting late.  
The shadows are getting long and the clouds overhead take on the rosy hues of early evening.  
A cold wind whistles between tents, stirring up dead leaves.  
There are only three places I haven't looked - the hall of mirrors, the house of horrors and the wax museum.

All three locations strike fear into my heart.  
It's not the knee-shaking, stuttering type of fear, just a quiet dread.  
This is no ordinary circus and I have no idea what to expect.  
I've only been here twice before and both times was to Pasha.  
Being around the old gypsy is weird enough.  
I have little desire to see just how strange this circus can get.  
But Maura is in here somewhere an I need to find her.


	5. Chapter 5

**I have to thank you all for those kind reviews. I really appreciate them. I didn't ****believe that someone would read this story. So thank you very much.**

**This chapter is a little bit shorter, but I hope you like it.**

**Enjoy**!

**T73**

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Next door to a string of abandoned popcorn and refreshment stands sits the house of horrors.  
It's a low, menacing structure, with a giant clown head in the middle. The clown's gaping mouth is the entrance.  
His pupils are evil slits and most of the paint has chipped away from his red nose revealing the grey aluminum beneath.  
He's got those terrible red circles on his laughing cheeks and a shock of red hair.  
I never did like clowns. In fact, I don't know anyone who does.  
They are inherently creepy and the artist that stuck a giant clown effigy on the front of the haunted house obviously understood that fact.  
Maybe what makes clowns so creepy is the fact that they aren't trying to be creepy?  
They are, in fact, trying to make people laugh.  
And yet, they are far more likely to make children cry and leave adults with an uneasy feeling in the pit of their stomach.  
I am no child, so as I make into the clown's open mouth I get that uneasy feeling in the pit of my belly, telling me this is a bad idea.  
"Maura?" I call out. "You in here?"  
I stand in a small entryway with plastic dungeons on either side.  
Behind the bars are scenes of torture and carnage.  
On my left, a blood-spattered nurse mannequin has a man on the rack.  
His hands and feet are shackled to the device and his mouth is open in a silent scream.  
On the other side stands a lumberjack with his chainsaw.  
His face is a mask of twisted mutation.  
One eye hangs out from the open socket and a long purple tongue lolls out of his mouth.  
"Pretty girl in a red dress came through here?" I ask him.  
He gives no reply.  
Thank God for that.  
"Maura! Quit playing around. It's time to go."  
There is only one way forward and a sign overhead with letter that drip blood, saying. **TURN BACK**.

If this were an average circus, I'd pass under that sign with a smirk on my face and, hopefully, a bag of buttery popcorn in hand.  
Instead, I sneak up to the door frame and peek through.  
The hall beyond shows me another series of grisly sights and give me two options.  
I can go left or right.  
The two signs accompany these options.  
On the left there is a sign that says **For the Timid**.  
On the right it says **For the Brave**.

I go to the right, my big ego pretty much insists upon it.  
Besides, I'm certain that Maura would have gone this way, being a strong-willed and independent woman.  
She would smirk at that sign and waltz on in.  
I do the same, only without the smirk.  
With the Cirque du Curieux anything is possible.  
The path presents me with a collection of grisly animatronics.  
Werewolves with snarling bloody fangs, a vampire ripping the throat from a buxom young lady and an army of zombies.  
If there were any electricity, the flashing lights, rolling thunder and moving limbs would probably make for a good scare.  
The path ends at pair of heavy wooden doors.  
Thinking I've reached the end of the house of horrors, I push through the double doors and find myself in a moonlit landscape.  
A two-story house stands at the top of a small hill.  
Lights burn in the windows like orange, winking eyes.  
A full moon peeks out from behind dark clouds.  
One side of the hill hosts a collection of tumbled-down grave makers.  
Wind howls through the branches of naked trees that stand like skeletal sentinels around the house.  
My first instinct is to turn back. And I start to do just that.  
Only the door is gone.  
"Damn," I mutter.  
A wolf's cry, at least I hope it's a wolf, rises above the whistling wind.  
"Damn" And this time I say it a little louder.  
With my hands in my coat pockets, I trudge up the incline and mount the sagging porch steps.  
The door is open a crack.  
I'd rather it was shut tight with a padlock and signal warning against intruders.  
The idea that this house wants me to come inside is not at all comforting.  
I wrap my hand around the grip on my Glock and nudge the door open with my foot.  
It swings in on rusty hinges.  
The inside is no more inviting than the outside.  
In fact, I am reminded strongly of The Vulture's house.  
And that went so well for me.  
The place smells like molding wood and stale piss.  
The floor boards groan underfoot.  
Antique furniture is covered in thick dust, and cobwebs festoon a crystal chandelier in the foyer.  
"Maid must be on vacation," I say. "Maura! You in here?"  
I don't expect an answer. I don't get one.  
From the foyer there is a stair that leads up to the second floor and a small door to the left of the stair.  
I open the door and find a narrow staircase leading down to the basement.  
I take the stairs to the second floor.  
Each and every step sighs under my weight.  
The upstairs landing is lit by a single gas lamp hissing out an orange flame.  
Shadows dance and lunge over the peeling wallpaper.  
The first door I try leads to a bathroom.  
Seeing the toilet reminds me that it's been all day.  
After relieving some pressure, I head to try another door, and someone calls my name.  
"Jane."  
It's Maura's voice and she doesn't sound like she's under any duress.  
In fact she sounds downright playful.  
I make an appropriately confused face and head down the hall to a pair of double doors at the end.  
I pause with my hands on the brass knobs.  
"I'm here, Jane. I've been waiting for you."  
Under better circumstances I would thrill to hear a beautiful woman say those words.  
Circumstances being what they are, I've got a lead weight in my belly.  
I turn the knobs and swing open both doors. "Wow."  
I am in the master bedroom.  
Maura is lying on a bed the size of a small continent, wrapped up in a silk sheet.  
One naked white leg sticks out.  
Her dress is on the floor.  
She grins and hitches up one shoulder. "Hello there, Jane."  
"Hello, dollface."  
"Is that all you like?" she asks. "My face?"  
"The rest isn't bad," I say.  
She sits up in bed.  
The sheet falls away.  
There are time in life when doing the right thing is next to impossible, even if you know what the right thing is, to be with.  
Times like this, for instance.  
Scooping up her dress, I toss it onto the bed and say, "We need to get out of here, Maura. Now get dressed and let's go."  
She makes a pouty face. "Janie poo, don't you want me?"  
"Like bum wants a bologna sandwich," I admit. "But someone is still trying to kill you. We are wasting precious time. Now get dressed."  
She crawls on all fours down to the end of the bed. "Don't be that way, Jane."  
I give her a good slap across the cheek.  
She blinks and looks around, like waking up from a long night's sleep.  
It's a moment before she realizes she's naked.  
She looks down at herself, gives a squeak and gathers the covers around her body. "Where is my dress?"  
I point.  
She looks around, grabs her dirty dress and tells me. "Turn around."  
I oblige.  
"What did you do?" she asks, "Get me drunk?"  
"You were in some kind of trance," I say. "I told you not to wander off."  
"Are we still at the circus?"  
"Yes, and we can't get outta here fast enough."  
"Okay," she says, and I turn back around.  
She's got her clothes on and rakes a hand through her blonde locks to straighten them. "How much did you see?"  
"I've seen a lot more last night." I take her by the elbow and steer her out the bedroom door.  
I and Maura make for the front door at the hurry up, before the house of horrors can spring any more surprises on us.  
Every step of the way, I wonder how we'll get back through to the open air of the circus.  
It's just possible that I'll be stuck with Maura in this alternate reality, in this creepy house on the hill.  
I swing open the front door and step out onto the porch, but the porch is gone.  
Instead I stepped right back through into the circus.  
I turn around and see the cozy giant clown head.  
Glad to be out of there, me and Maura hurry back to the cab before anything else can go wrong.  
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Hank is unhappy.  
I left him asleep in his cab all day.  
He grumbles about missed fares, but he forgets his complaints as I relate the day's events to him and Maura, who is still a little groggy.  
When I am done, Hank gives a low whistle. "You sure do know how to show a girl a good time."  
"Yeah, I'm a regular Casanova," I remark.  
Maura can't say why or when she walked away from Zoltar. "The last I remember is you going into the caravan. After that it's just imagines and most of them aren't very nice." She runs her hands through her hair as if she can shake loose the memories.  
"The circus can do that," I say.  
Hank drops us at my office building.  
I bring Maura up to date on the curse as we walk up the stairs.  
In front of my office door, she says, "So the death curse is lifted?"  
"Yeah."  
"But whoever cursed me can just curse me again?"  
"It will take some time," I explain. "Curses like that aren't easy as saying a few Latin words. They need the right ingredients and preparation. Sometimes they need the right lunar phase. We've brought ourselves some breathing room. Now it's just a matter of figure out who's got motive to kill you."  
"Oh right, now it's simple." She rolls her eyes.  
I go to put the key in the lock and pause.  
The door is open a crack.  
I smell cigarette and hear the soft hiss of silky clothes inside.  
Maura's eyes go wide.  
She mouths something at me that might been, "What do we do?"  
Clients don't normally break in.  
Could be that the mob found me already, or maybe my landlady came back.  
I suspect something more sinister.  
Whoever it is, I'm not going to let them see I'm scared.  
I put a hand under my coat for my gun just in case and tell Maura, "I think we are about to get a look at the culprit."  
She grips my left biceps. Her nails dig into the skin.  
I give her a reassuring smile and a wink, and then throw the door open wide.  
Doing my best to stay in character I say, "Thanks for choosing Rizzoli Investigations, we solve 'em all."  
It's not an evil sorcerer or even a monster.  
It's Lora.  
She's sitting on the corner of my desk wearing a short dress that shows off her legs.  
One high-heeled shoe dangles from her toes. She's leafing through a fashion magazine with a cigarette in one hand.  
She looks up when I enter.  
One carefully-sculpted eyebrow goes up and her red lips part. "Is that a gun under your coat or are you happy to see me, Jane?"  
"Both." I motion for Maura to enter.  
She sees Lora and they rush to embrace each other, like it's been months instead of days.  
Seeing the two of them together highlights the differences.  
They look more like mother and daughter than friends.  
Maura might have the body and face of a twenty-year-old, but Lora has an appealing, almost maternal warmth layered over her own innate, sumptuous beauty.  
Well, but I still would go for Maura.  
"How'd you get in?" I ask.  
"Your landlady let me in," she tells me. "I told her I was a prospective client. She seemed to think you need the work."  
"She's thoughtful like that." I drop the gun onto the desktop, collapse into my chair and bring a bottle out of a drawer. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"  
Lora hunts up three, mostly clean, glasses and I pour.  
She hands one of the glasses to Maura and says, "Drink that down."  
A frown turns Maura's face sour. She takes the drink in both hands and asks, "What's happened?"  
Lora motions her to drink and does the same.  
The two women sit down, and Lora puts a hand on Maura's knee. "Ivana is dead."  
Maura chokes back a sob.

Lora leans across and wipes a tear from her cheeks. "I'm sorry."  
"She was the trapeze girl?" I ask.  
Lora nods.  
"God," says Maura. She downs the rest of her drink. "She was only eighteen. Who'd want Ivana dead?"  
Lora shakes her head. "I don't know, but the police are at her house right now, investigating."  
"How'd she get it?" I ask.  
My comment gets another sob from Maura.  
Lora gives me a certain look in reprimand.  
She got an arm around Maura who is gently weeping and sipping bourbon.  
"I don't know," Lora says. "We only just found out."  
I gulp down bourbon and shake my head. "I told you to stay with them."  
"I tried," Lora says in her defense, and I can see the hurt in her eyes. "Ivana wouldn't listen. She went home early this morning. And where have you been all day?"  
"At the circus, " I tell her. "Where did she live?"  
She gives you an address.  
"I've still got a few, friends in the department." I say, which is mostly true.  
Okay, mostly a lie.  
I forge ahead anyway.  
I make sure my Glock is loaded and holster it. "I'm going to check it out. There's not much you girls can do to help. I want you to stay here and keep the door locked."  
"Jane," Maura stops me in the door.  
She comes over and fixes a lapel of my rumpled coat.  
Her eyes are trying to tell me something.  
She opens her mouth, closes it and says, "You look like hell."  
"Thank you, honey," I say, as if she just told me how handsome and debonair I look. "You're not so bad yourself." I turn and walk out into the hallway.  
Maura follows me and runs to catch up with me.  
Before I know it, her hand on my chest and your eyes lock. "Maybe when all this is over ..." She doesn't finish the thought.  
"Yeah," I say, jumping into the silence. "Maybe when all this is over."  
"Be careful, tough girl." She lifts one corner of her mouth. "Wouldn't want anything bad happen to you."  
"Likewise," I tell her.  
It's been a while the last time I had an serious relationship and the idea of a romance with Maura stirs something inside me, something I thought died with Rose.  
I wasn't sure that part of me existed anymore.  
Love is like that.  
Sometimes it sneaks up on you.  
Maybe me and Maura could have something together.  
Maybe.  
I give her a wink and walk.  
"Come back soon," she calls.  
"Count on it."


	6. Chapter 6

I head down for a look at Ivana's place.  
She lived in a basement apartment on Walsingham Street in Newtown.  
Police crusers crowd at the cracked macadam parking lot.  
Their flashing lights paint the old building in alternating blue and red.  
Someone's dog is barking, steady as a metronome.  
A loose knit crowd mills about on the sidewalk watching the police work.  
Wherever there are flashing lights, there will be a crowd.  
It's something to do with human nature.  
People can't resist flashing lights.  
I learned that on the police beat.  
They stand around gawping.  
Who knows what they're looking for?  
Maybe they are hoping for a shootout?  
Or a glimpse at a dead body.  
I go in through the front door, trying to look like a resident on her way home.  
I could almost afford to live here.  
What's it say when a burlesque dancer rates a nicer apartment than a private eye?  
I should have been a firefighter.  
The lobby has a fake chandelier and faux marble in the art deco style.  
The elevator doors a large chrome affairs, supposed to make the place look more upscale than it really is.  
Almost works, too.  
More people, mostly police officers, crowd the lobby.  
I take the stairs down to the basement.  
The builders didn't bother with any affectation down here.  
The floor are concrete.  
Stark overheads turn everything a lifeless yellow hue.  
It smells like cat vomit.  
There's no need to look at the floor numbers.  
Ivana's door is taped off with a patrolman standing guard.  
He's young.  
He's got his thumbs hooked into his belt, looking bored.  
He must be new.  
I don't recognize him, which could work to my advantages.  
Remembering what it's like to be the lead Detective at the scene, I stop in front of the young officer and thrust my chin at the open door. "Forensics cart away the stiff yet?"  
His thumbs unhook from his belt. He gives me a once over, trying to make up his mind as to who I am.  
Does he need to see my badge?  
While he's trying to decide what to do, I jump on the silence.  
"Forensics," I say it the way I might talk to a particularly slow school boy and raise my eyebrows. "Did they take the body away?"  
"Uh ..." he starts too look over his shoulder, but returns his attention to me. "No. Not yet." after a beat he adds. "Ma'am."  
I nod and sigh, like this is the hard part. "Been inside?" I ask.  
"Just to peek," he admits.  
"Is it bad?"  
He jerks his head forward. "Pretty messy."  
"Murder is a messy thing." I tell him. "This your first?"  
He nods again. "Yes, Ma'am."  
"Doesn't get any easier." I tip him a salute and duck under the tape.  
I make it two steps inside and hear, "Rizzoli, why am I not at all surprised to see you?"  
Vince Korsak, my older partner, plants himself in front of me, effectively blocking my view of the crime scene.  
"I'm like a bad penny." I shrug.  
He puts his hands on his hips and looks at you with his chin lowered and his eyebrows raised.  
"I'm working a case." I fill him in on the two dead dancers and Maura, making it sound like she hired me for protection, which she did, but I leave out the supernatural bits.  
"Looks like our cases collided,"I finish.  
"My case," he corrects me.  
"Come on, Vince. Just let me have a quick peek. A girl's life is on the line. Several lives in fact."  
"Funny you should mention that," says Korsak. "A warehouse belonging to **the** Shark blew up last night. Rescue workers fished a body duct-taped to a chair out of the drink. Happens to be the manager of the club where your client works. Know anything about that?"

"It's news to me." I do my best to look surprised by that information.  
"If you aren't to play ball then go sit on that pretty little client of yours." Korsak tells me. "That's the best way to keep her safe."  
Alright, I knew about the warehouse." I admit.  
"Start the fire?"  
"No."  
"But you were there?"  
"Yes."  
"And?"  
I hunch my shoulders up. "The manager was in deep with Seamus. Owed a bunch of money. I tried to get him out and everything went sideways. But I didn't torch the place."  
Korsak motions for me to take a look at the scene.  
Ivana lived in a tiny basement flat with carpets the color of pond scum and a similar smell, water-stained ceilings and peeling wallpapers.  
She must have been a horse lover. There are little horse figurines on top of the nightstand and the weathered chest of drawers.  
An oscillating fan makes a steady creak-rattle-creak.  
The Detectives are crawling all over the place, putting bits of evidence into plastic bags and boxes.  
The body of the trapeze artist is stretched out on the floor, face down with her hands at her sides.  
She might have fallen over drunk except for the dent in the back of her skull.  
Her face is in a sticky, dry puddle of dark blood.  
I sigh. "Body number three."  
"What's that?" Korsak says.  
I point to Ivana. "That's body number three."  
"You know something I don't," he says.  
"Two dancers from this same burlesque troupe turned up dead recently, Deedee and Joanie. My client Maura ..."  
"Any of these girls have grownup names?" he interrupts.  
"Probably only Maura." I shake my head. "The police ruled both of their deaths accidental. Maura thought they were murdered. She came to me for protection and to find out who killed her friends. Turns out Maura was right and the police were wrong. Someone is killing of this burlesque troupe one at a time."  
He plants his hands on his hips. He didn't miss the jibe at the police incompetence, but let's it slide. "Any suspects?"  
"I've ruled out the manager." I thrust my chin at the body on the floor. "How'd she get it?"  
"I'm no coroner," says Korsak, "But I think someone hit her in the back of the head."  
"No kidding?" I give him a flat look. "Have they found the murder weapon?"  
He points to a cardboard box with an evidence tag on the side.  
I gather up my coat and step carefully over the body for a peek.  
Inside is an alabaster horse head the size of a cantaloupe. Blood stains the corner.  
I whistle. "Someone beamed her with a horse statue."  
Korsak makes a grunting noise.  
I looked at the body.  
She's face down with her hands at her sides.  
She got no defensive wounds.  
It's like she turned her back on someone, they picked the horse head off the chest of drawers and clobbered her.  
She wasn't running away from her murderer or her hands would be stretched out to the sides or overhead. "You think what I'm thinking?"  
Korsak jerks his head forward. "She was killed by someone she trusted. Never saw it coming."  
"Yeah," I agree. "That makes it probably someone from the troupe or a night club employee."  
"We'll need to compare notes on this burlesque troupe."  
"Sure."  
"What I don't understand is how you got here so Korsak says.  
"What do you mean?"  
This hasn't even gone out on the wire yet," he tells me. "Hell, we haven't even notified next kin if there are any. How'd you find out about it?"  
"Wait a minute," I say. "Who found the body?"  
"Anonymous tip.", he says.  
"Thanks, Vince. I gotta go." I leave, swatting the police tape out of my way and making a run for the stairs.  
"Hey! Rizzoli! Get back here," Korsak's voice follows me.  
I have no time to explain. It may already be too late.  
This whole thing was a set up to get me away from Maura.  
Korsak gave me the final piece of puzzle.  
The murder hasn't been publicized yet. There was no way Lora could have known Ivana had been killed.  
Unless she was the one that did the killing.  
Ivana would have opened the door for Lora and let her inside without a second thought.  
The moment Ivana turned her back, Lora picked up a horse statue and killed her.  
Then she showed up at my office and sent me on a wild blocks back chase.  
I sprint twenty blocks back to my office building and take the steps two at a time up to the second floor.  
The door stands open.  
The girls are gone.  
A high-heeled shoe lying in the middle of the floor is the only evidence that Maura was ever there to begin with.  
Nothing else is out of place.  
Looks like Lora grabbed her and split.  
But where to?  
I snatch the phone off the receiver, give Hank a call and then wait at the curb, my hands in my pockets, rocking back and forth on my heels.  
The thunder rumbles in the distance and a light drizzles starts.  
The tiny raindrops make orange holes around the street lamps.  
Five long minutes creep by before the cab comes roaring around the corner.  
Tires whine on the wet concrete.  
I pull open the door and throw myself into the passenger seat, before Hank can make a complete stop.  
He stamps on the gas.  
The car leaps forward and I am pinned to the passenger seat.  
"Where to?" he asks.  
"First the club." I am hanging onto the door handle, praying Hank doesn't go sliding of the wet roads.  
He peels around corners and bangs over potholes, but five minutes later the cab screeches to a halt in front of the club.  
The marquee reads **CLOSED FOR REMODELING**.

No door fee this time.  
The place still smells like smoke and the twisted metal skeleton of the lighting scaffold still clutters the stage.  
I head to Jeffrey's office, find a light switch, and rummage through his files, looking for any info on Lora.  
My heart is doing the jitterbug inside my chest the whole time.  
Every minute could be Maura's last.  
She could be dead already.  
I try not to think about that as I ransack the desk drawers.  
It takes ten minutes but I finally locate Lora Lust's employee file.  
Her real name is Lora Chase.  
And it has an address.  
I take the file and head back to Hank's cab.  
He throttles away from the curb and swerves in front of an old Lincoln that lays on the horn.  
He pulls outside a two story brown stone that costs too much for a night club singer.  
I double check the address.  
It's correct.  
I tell Hank, "Keep the engine running."  
It waste precious time, but I skulk up the corner of the yard to a side window for a peek.  
The place feels empty.  
A lamp is on in the living room.  
Through lace curtains, I see a low backed sofa and a fireplace.  
Over the mantle hangs a picture of Lora.  
I bring out my Glock and mount the steps to the porch.  
I try the knob. It's locked.  
I figure the back door is bound to be blocked and breaking a window will make noise anyway, so I decide Maura's best chance of survival is for me to get to her as fast as possible.  
I take a step back and drive my foot into the door, just below the knob.  
The door crashes in, taking a piece of the frame along with me.  
I step into the dim interior of Lora's front hall with my gun raised.  
I am reminded of the last house I broke into.  
I ended up in the basement chained to the ceiling.  
This time around I check every shadow and try to watch my back.  
The first floor turns up nothing.  
The kitchen is clean and the living room has a collection of photographs.  
Most of the photos are of Lora, some of the other girls.  
All of them are provocative shots taken on their stage performances.  
I resist the urge to pocket a few of the more scintillating pictures and head up the stairs instead.

A landing at the top presents me with three doors.  
The first door is her bedroom.  
I toss the mattress and riffle her drawers for anything that might tell me where she took Maura.  
I find a collection of shoes and lacy underwear.  
The second door is the toilet.  
I am about to open the third door when I notice nose coming from inside.  
It's a scratching noise like nails on wood, large nails.  
I pull out my Glock and peek through the keyhole.  
There's so something large and hairy in there, like a sort of dog.  
Carefully, I try the knob. It's locked.  
I'll have to kick the door in  
I consider my options.  
I'm pressed for time, si my first thought is to simply kick the door in with my gun in ready.  
Another option might be to kick the door in with the intention of running for the bathroom.  
Another option would be to try to kick the door in and then try to immediately close it again.  
Maybe that would give me a good look at what's in there and if I could keep the door open a crack, I could observe the animal without letting it out.  
Still, I've kicked in enough doors to know that I really have to lay into it and so it probably bust wide open and I won't have control of that door for a moment.  
It takes two kicks to splinter the door open.  
What I see inside will haunt my dreams from now on.  
Spiders - huge ones!  
They are the size of bulldogs with coarse, black hair and spindly legs and mandibles and eyes ...  
I were planning on running and and seeing this makes that all-too-easy.  
I scream like a small girl and sprint to the bathroom as I hear the scurrying clawed legs of the spiders pursuing me.  
I slam the bathroom door shut just as the first spider thumps against it.  
More thumping.  
They are either hungry or very angry.  
I presume they are not seeking for me to pet their bloated, hairy abdomens.  
_Maura is in trouble. Pull yourself together!_ I think.

Fighting my fear and revulsion, I ready my Glock and open the door a crack.  
As big as they are, the spiders aren't as heavy as you and so, although they savagely beat against the door, they can't force their way in.  
Keeping one foot wedged into the bottom of the door, I shoot down into the spiders through the crack.  
It makes me think of an arrow slit of a castle.  
I have to reload once, but soon I have three quivering, curled up spiders out in the hall and several holes in the floor.  
As I compose myself, the spiders begin to sizzle and smoke.  
Soon there is nothing left of them but three small piles of ash and the smell of sulfur.  
_Guardians summoned from another world,_ I realize grimly.

Well, at least I disposed of the guardians effectively.  
That could have gone a lot worse.  
I leave the bathroom and head toward the spider room.  
What should have been a second bedroom has been transformed into an occult studio.  
Mystical symbols and incantations cover the walls.  
The carpeting has been ripped up, and a giant pentagram covers the floor.  
A long table holds black candles, chicken feet, jars full of mandrake root and a host of other spell ingredients.  
There is a podium with a book open on it. The pages are old and yellowed.  
Tacked to the wall are pictures of the burlesque troupe.  
Lora has scribbled incarnations over their photos.  
The room smells like melted wax and incense.  
I walk around the outside of the pentagram for a closer inspection of the book.  
It's a leather-bound and heavy enough to make a good door-stop.  
Most of the pages are falling out and crumble at my touch.  
The script is barely legible, written in an ancient language that I don't recognize it.  
It looks vaguely Middle East, but that's all my two years of community college tells me.  
While it's possible that Lora holds a Ph. D. in ancient Arabic, I am betting she's got a translation around here somewhere.  
I find what I am looking for on the long table. Next to a stack of handwritten pages is a used and abused textbook, _Pre-Classic Arabic Text and Translation, Volume 1_.

There's nothing like a little light bedtime reading.  
I pick up the stack of papers. The top page is a spell to restore youth and requires the blood of four young women.  
The last of these must be sacrificed at the stroke of midnight in a place of magical significance.

I glance at my watch. It's 11:45.  
Lora's get everything set.  
She just needs the final sacrifice to turn back the clock and reclaim her lost youth.  
Pretty neat trick, especially for someone that relies on her looks to make a living.  
Who knows how many times she has done this?  
Kill of a couple of her fellow dancers using what look like random accidents so she can knock back the clock years.  
Then move to a new town and start over.  
That would explain how she can afford the fine house.  
But why the headline girls?  
Maybe it was jealousy?  
Maybe she figured if she had to sacrifice some young women, she might as well take out her top professional competition?  
Or maybe the ideal sacrifice is not just young, but beautiful as well?  
These girls were headliners for a reason, after all.  
If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, better to trust the eye of the burlesque show vetting process, than only your own.  
Now I have a good handle on the why and the how.  
I still don't have any clue where she might have taken Maura to perform the final sacrifice.  
According to the spell, the last of the sacrifices requires a magically-significant locale.  
Sacrificing women around the backyard barbecue doesn't do you any good unless you want to invoke a barbecue demon for that extra special flavor.  
Lora would have taken Maura somewhere with particularly strong magical current.  
I've got fifteen minutes to find out where and put a stop to all this.  
I riffle through the pages looking for something, anything, that might tell me where she's gone.  
I find translations for death curses and a number of other complicated spells, but no locations.  
In frustration, I kick the podium, sending the ancient grimoire to the floor.  
Loose pages flutter through the air. Along with something else.  
I move loose pages aside with my foot and find a map of Deadwood Cove.  
It had been folded and stuck between the pages of the spell book.  
There is a location circled in red.  
Map in hand, I hurry back outside.  
The rain is coming down in horizontal waves punctuated by the occasional rumble of thunder.  
I duck inside the cab and show Hank the map. "Know this place?"  
He plucks the cigar stub from his mouth. "Sure, it's in the Heights. Used to be a nice neighborhood to live in. That was back before you were born. Now it's a dump full of falling-down houses."  
"Anything peculiar about it?"  
"Peculiar how?" He pushes the cigarette lighter.  
"Any place with reputation for hauntings?" I suggest.  
The cigarette lighter pops out.  
He touches the glowing coil to the stub of the cigar and fills the cab with sweet-smelling cloud. "Don't know about hauntings." he says. "But there is an abandoned cathedral. Place gives me the creeps just driving past. Suppose you'll want to go there next?"  
"And fast," I tell him.


	7. Chapter 7

Hank speeds along wet boulevards and slews around corners.  
Rain lashes the windshield.  
I try not to look at my watch, but I can feel the minutes ticking by, every second bringing Maura closer to her doom.  
The ride takes forever and my mind uses the time to show me all manner of terrible outcomes.  
Finally the cab slides to a stop, fishtailing along the rain-soaked street and throwing me into the dashboard.  
Hank uses the stub of cigar to point out the passenger window. "That's it."  
I crank the window down and gaze through the pouring rain at the abandoned cathedral. "God Almighty."  
"Don't thin he lives there anymore, girl." Hank rolls the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other.  
The church, built in the gothic style, hunkers at the top of a bald hill.  
Crumbling spires thrusts into the dark skies flying buttresses stain to support stone walls that buckle outward, ready to collapse.  
Most of the roof fell in years ago.  
The stained glass is gone, leaving windows like gaping, black eyes.  
It might be my imagination, but I think I can ser a weak glow through one of those windows.  
A crooked finger of lightning illuminates the front, burning the imagine of the cathedral into my retina.  
A clap of thunder, loud enough to shake the car, follows.  
"Got a plan?" Hank asks.  
I shake my head. "Not as such."  
"Need backup?"  
"I can't ask you to get involved," I tell him.  
"I was hoping you'd say that."  
That gets a wry smile out of me. "You could drive back to the police station. Ask for Detective Vince Korsak."  
"Will do." He offers his hand. "Good luck."  
I shake and then step out of the car into the pouring rain.  
Hank pulls a U and heads back down the hill, leaving me soaked to the bone, gazing at the gothic monolith.  
Maybe Korsak will show up,in,time, but I can't count on it.  
I've got a loaded gun, an amulet that is supposed to offer some kind of protection but I am not sure exactly what, and less than ten minutes to save Maura.  
Ain't life swell.  
I take the amulet out of my coat pocket and slip the leather chord over my head.  
Despite the cold, the metal feels warm against my skin.  
A faint, but perceptible puls hums through my chest and it's coming from the amulet.  
That's a good sign.  
Ignoring wind and rain, I stalk up the hill with my Glock in hand and pause at the steps to the decrepit old cathedral.  
Leering at me from the roof of the porch is a stone gargoyle in the form of a demon with a long tongue and horns.  
A jet of water pours from his open mouth.  
It's now or never.  
I square my shoulders and mount the steps.  
Beyond the arch is an entry hall.  
One of the great wooden doors lies flat on the stone floor, covered in a thick layer of dust.  
The other door is gone.  
There a scuffed and confused tracks in the dust, like someone recently passed this way, probably dragging someone else along by force.  
A effigy of the Holy Mother, with her hands clasped in prayers and her eyes turned up to heaven, faces the open arch.  
On either side of Mary are altars for prayer candles.  
The candles are gone and cobwebs have taken their place.  
Two doors lead away from the antechamber, one to a set of stairs and the other, I assume, goes to the nave.  
The entry hall looks safe enough.  
I step inside, but the moment my foot crosses the threshold, I hear a low scraping, like heavy stones grinding together.  
I turn in time to see the gargoyle land in a crouch on the front steps.  
Its weight buckles one of the risers.  
Its stone tongue wags back and forth and its claws dig furrows in the stairs.  
When the gargoyle moves it sounds like gravel through an industrial grinder.  
"Ah," I say. "Right."  
The gargoyle crawls on all fours to the top step, tongue wagging, and starts across the porch, no doubt intent on tearing my head off.  
Not keen on losing my head, I sprint to the spiral stairs and take the steps two at a time.  
The gargoyle follows me.  
His claws tear ruts in the steps and his shoulders furrows in the walls.  
Up and up I go.  
The muscles in my thighs burn with exhaustion.  
I reach the top panting for breath.  
I am in the bell tower.  
A family of pigeons take to their wings at my sudden entrance, leaving behind a few feathers and a lot of poop.  
The rusting iron bell hangs at the center of the tower.  
The rope is gone, rotten away.  
The support structure holding the bell looks ready to collapse.  
Four windows open out of the tower, one of which looks out over what remains of the decaying roof of the cathedral.  
Gravity seems to be my best ally against this stone monster.  
I could climb up onto the bell and try to break the support structure, to send the bell down onto the gargoyle and hopefully trap it.  
Another option is to jump down onto the decaying roof to bait the gargoyle after me.  
I doubt that the roof can withstand the weight of the beast.  
The gargoyle is just around the bens of the stairs.  
He's making a hell of a racket going up the steps.  
It sounds like an avalanche, only going up instead down.  
I throw one leg over the window ledge and then the other.  
It's a fifteen foot drop to the cathedral roof, give or take, but it looks like a lot more from up here.  
And the section of the roof directly below me looks ready to give out, but there is no time to do anything else.  
The gargoyle reaches the top of the stairs, filling the door frame.  
Its stone head swivels in my direction - that grinding noise sends a shiver traipsing up my spine.  
I push off from the widow ledge.  
The air rushes in my ears and drags at my coat.  
The roof comes up to meet me.  
I land on my feet with a jarring thud and roll.  
The support timbers make groaning, popping sounds, but they hold.  
I scramble up the incline to the cathedral's peak.  
The stone demon climbs into the window frame and pauses there.  
I fear he won't take the bait and hump down onto the rotten roof.  
I make lewd gestures at the gargoyle, uncertain as to whether he understands them.  
Perhaps he got the idea because he laps.  
His crawled feet hit the roof with a mighty crack.  
I feel the boards quivering beneath my feet.  
The gargoyle takes one step in my direction and a hole opens up beneath him.  
The demon disappears.  
There is a tremendous boom when he hits the bottom.  
I pad carefully to the edge of the hole.  
The gargoyle lies in pieces on the floor of the cathedral.  
I smirk, "Watch your step."  
Then the bottom drops out of my world.  
More of the roof gives away with a shriek and I join a litter of crumbling timbers on its way down yo the cathedral floor.  
I land in a heap.  
A good potion of roof lands on top of me.  
The fall have should killed me.  
Pain dances around in the blackness of my head like laughing skeletons.  
The amulet saved my life, but now I can feel its power winking out like a candle that's reached the end of its wick.  
I groan and throw off the planks covering my face.  
The nave js long, with lofty ceilings, fluted columns and effigies of the saints along the walls.  
Several of those statues have been defaced with dirty words and crude drawings.  
Cobwebs drape the corners.  
Only a handful of pews remain and most of those are water damaged.  
Rain issues in through gaps in the roof and forms standing puddles on the floor.  
There is a pair of candelabras on stage.  
The candelabras flickers and dance, throwing grotesque shadows on the walls.  
Up on the stage, where a priest would normally read from the Word, Lora is performing a scared rite of a different sort.  
Maura is tied makes to a high-backed chair.  
The candle light in her bare skin reveals arcane symbols drawn on in preparation of the sacrifice.  
She's got a gag in her mouth and dark mascara running down her cheeks.  
Her eyes are wide in terror.  
Lora is naked as well, with matching symbols inked on her body.  
She is behind Maura, a jeweled dagger in her hand, chanting incantations in a language I don't understand.  
Her eyes are closed.  
She seems caught up in the rapture of the moment.  
Her body convulses with each uttered syllable.  
Maura pull ineffectually at the robs.  
The gag muffles her sobs.  
I start toward the lectern. "Lora, don't do this."  
Her eyes open.  
She waves a hand in my direction, and a ring of blue flames leap up around me.  
I am hemmed in with only a few feet to move around.  
The intense and sudden heat turns rain water to steam.  
It's standing to close to a furnace.  
Sweat breaks out all over my body.  
I retreat to the center of the ring, keeping as much distance between me and the witch fire as possible.  
She could have turned me into a fiery conflagration, burned me to a crisp, but she trapped me instead.  
It doesn't make sense.  
Unless she has something else, something even more hideous in store for me.  
She could have killed me with that spell and didn't .  
Maybe there is still some good left in her.  
I can't put a bullet in her, not yet. "Lora!" I have to yell to be heard over the cracking flames. "Put that knife down. Now!" I raise the Glock to drive the threat home.  
Startled, Lora jerks her attention away from Maura. "Dammit Jane, don't you ever give up?" She runs a rand through her blonde locks.  
"No." I say.  
She steps to the edge of the podium. There is a desperate edge to her voice. "Jane, let me do this and then we can be together. I'll be young and beautiful for you. We can go away. Disappear. Leave here and start over. Just you and me."  
Now it makes sense to me and I have to resist the urge to gag. "Is this the part where you tell me you actually care for me?" I ask.  
"I do," she says and stretches her hands toward me. Of course, one is still holding a dagger. "I really do, Jane."  
"If you care for me, put that knife down."  
"This is the last one, Jane," she says. She circles in back of Maura, grabs a handful of her hair and wrenches her head back.  
Maura wails through the gag.  
Lora puts the blade to her throat. "One more and I'll be young again. And I'll be yours. All you have to do is look to the other way."  
"You don't need to be young." I tell her. "You are beautiful just the way you are."  
She lets out a bitter laugh. "You say that now." She shakes her head. "In another year or two the crow's feet will deepen. Everything starts to droop. Then you'll leave, just like all the rest. You'll crash in for a younger model."  
"I'm sorry you feel that way." I raise the gun. "But I won't let you kill anybody else."  
She looks into my eyes, smiles and shakes her head. "You won't do it."  
She's going to open Maura's throat.  
I see the muscles in her shoulder flex beneath the skin and her hand starts to drag the dagger across Maura's skin.  
I pull the trigger at the same time.  
The shot carries the undeniable ring of finality, like the period at the end of a sentence.  
It's short and sharp and complete.  
The bullet punches a hole through the center of Lora's chest.  
The dagger slips from her fingers.  
She staggers back a step, looks down at the bloody aperture in her sternum and then collapse.  
The flames wink out.  
Maura's got a superficial cut on her throat, but she's okay. I closely check on her.  
Then I walk to Lora and kneel down next to her.  
Her eyes are wide.  
One hand comes up, searching for mine, her fingers trembling.  
I take her hand.  
A tear wells up in one eye and leaks down over her cheek.  
She opens her mouth, her lips move, but the words never make it.  
The light goes out of her eyes.  
Her hand relaxes.  
By the time Korsak shows up with the police, I've got Maura untied and wrapped up in my coat.  
Exhaustion is setting in  
She is done crying.  
Now she's just in shock.  
The rain has stopped.  
I fill Korsak in on the whole grisly affair, including the supernatural parts.  
He doesn't believe most of.  
But that's his problem.  
I walk Maura down to Hank's cab, one arm around her for support.  
The two of you climb in the backseat, and Hank pulls away from the curb.


	8. Epilogue

**So, this is it, the last chapter. Thank you for reading this little trip to the other side.**

**T73**

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx **

Three days later I am leaning back in my office chair and a novel open in one hand.  
I've been trying to read the same page for ten minutes and still don't know what it says.  
Like a dog going back to its own vomit, my mind keeps going back to Lora and Maura.  
I keep wondering what might have been.  
There is a knock and Maura enters.  
I drop my feet, stand and don't know what to do.  
I offer a chair, but she doesn't sit.  
She's got a suitcase in hand. She puts it down and strips off her gloves. "I just want to say thank you. And goodbye."  
My heart drops, "You're leaving?"  
She nods. "This town js no good for me."  
"This town is no good for people, " I tell her.  
"I think I go someplace warm," she says. "Maybe take night classes."  
"That's a good idea."  
You both stand there in awkward silence for a minute.  
"Well, there is a cab waiting." She flashes a nervous smile, kisses my cheek and then picks up her suitcase and walks to the door. She pauses there with her hand on the knob. "I'm sorry, Jane."  
"For what?"  
She shrugs. "For getting you involved in all of this. For nearly getting you killed."  
"That's my job." I tell her.  
"Not a very good job," she says. "Is it?"  
I laugh. "Maybe I'll take up dancing."  
One side of her mouth twitches up in a smile. It fades away just as fast.  
She steps in front of me and presses her lips to mine. "I'm sorry."  
I close my eyes and lean my forehead against hers. "That's the story of my life, honey. Just when I start thinking I can trust someone ..."  
I don't bother to finish that thought.  
Maura nods in understanding a,d glances at her suitcase. "Still, I'm sorry."  
"Yeah. Me, too."  
"Goodbye, Jane."  
"So long, dollface."  
She turns and leaves, closing the door behind her.  
I go to the window and watch her climb in a cab.  
I stand there a long time after the car pulls away, looking at the empty street, wondering.  
Did Maura ever feel anything for me?  
Was it real?  
You'll never know.  
That's the hardest part.


End file.
